Back to Boston
by TheRavenBlade
Summary: RED Scout hated, and still hates his old family with burning passion, hence why he ran away at the tender age of thirteen. However, upon receiving a letter from his father, urging him to return to Boston to be with his Ma in her final hours, Scout's forced to return to his family whilst facing some rather troublesome situations in the place he used to call home. HIATUS.
1. The Letter

_Boston, Massachusetts – Hawthorne residence, 1962._

The dark, night skies hung over the city Boston, submerging the usually lively city in a wide cast of visionless shadow. The only folks of the fair city that were planning on getting out of their beds that night were either dastardly criminals, those going out to their nightshifts, the classy ladies and gents with booked tickets to extraordinary shows, or, in Nathan Hawthorne's case, to completely disappear from the face of the earth.

The thirteen-year-old baseball fan lay awake in the bunk bed amidst his snoring brothers, waiting for his opportunity to arise. He had been planning this out for a long time. Years. The idea had occurred to him when he was nine, but he ultimately chickened out on it and went back home shortly after. Again when he was twelve, but his third oldest and his absolute favourite brother, Ritchie, had stopped him, and assured Nathan that he loved him and he didn't want him to leave. Now that he was fifteen, things were different. _Very different._ He was gonna try for the final time, and he was gonna succeed. Ritchie's feelings were no longer part of the equation. Ritchie wasn't with them anymore.

Call him a fool all you like, but Nathan had vanished from his home for a full week after Ritchie's death, and no one had noticed. Just to add to ironical side of it, the street had been a kinder place to him than his own house. His family hated him, and he hated them back. He had long stopped trying to win over their affections, and now as the clock struck midnight, he knew what had to be done.

He noiselessly slid his skinny frame out of his shared bed and onto the wooden floor with stealth to rival that of a cat's, and went towards to closet to get his brother Reese's rucksack. The boy changed into a pair of hunting pants, a black, long sleeved shirt, a dark windbreaker and Ritchie's baseball cap. He also grabbed some of his spare clothes, some blankets, his toothbrush, a couple baseball cards and his lucky baseball bat, along with an old photograph of him and Ritchie at the harbor, and stuffed it all into the big rucksack. He then crept out of the room and into the kitchen.

He wandered through the small, smooth tiled room and careful looted the fridge and cupboards for food that would last for a long while, along with the money from the, 'Spare-Change-Jar' they had on top of the fridge. All the change added up to $86.54. It wouldn't last very long, but it would have to do. His plan was to sneak onto a train and go to Chicago, and hopefully find some work. He was really fast and he was pretty tough for someone his age, after all. …Yeah, he knew he'd probably die, but at least he'd die free. And if he did die, he could see Ritchie again... Win-win situation.

He took his brother Vince's hunting knife and left his farewell note on the maple wood table for his family to see. With all this done, he approached the door, and took one last look at the interior of the house.

The creaky wooden floors, the ancient furniture, the dusty photographs… The place he had called home for thirteen years. The cold, miserable, icy, unforgiving place he had called home for thirteen years. He had a feeling he wouldn't be seeing this place again for a long time.

"See ya," he uttered dejectedly as he emotionlessly closed the door behind him. Clark and Blair Hawthorne now only had six sons to worry about. The youngest son, the little pup of the family, had left the nest without any regrets. He departed the way he arrived: Unexpected and unpleasant.

As he callously walked through the dark streets of Boston with dark skies looming overhead and the train station getting closer with every step, he came to an abrupt stop. He looked over his shoulder to the street from which he had just came, and suddenly, he realized something. He was feeling… Happy. Happy he wouldn't have to see his family again, to come back after a hellish day at school to the same unkind faces, to hide away in the cellar with only his imaginary friends for support for his problems. It wouldn't be easy from here on out, but it was the way he was starting his adventure. A fresh start in the mysterious world. A short sentence popped into his head, and a heartless smile formed on his face. Two words. Three syllables. A straightforward meaning. He couldn't help but smile even wider as the simple, cruel statement rolled off his tongue:

"_Good riddance."_

_New Mexico – 1968_

Scout's bright blue eyes fluttered open with surprise at the recollection of his escaping of Boston. He lay on his white bed and store up at the cream coloured ceiling for a bit, contemplating as to why he had gotten that memory as a dream last night. He pushed himself up to a sitting position on his bed and yawned slightly. It wasn't often he thought back to that night. Usually, it was Ritchie's limp body being buried in the ground that haunted his nightmares, or worse, ones about his teammates dying horrible deaths and leaving him all alone again. Those were the ones that terrified him the most, leaving him hyperventilating and lying awake in bed for hours on end. The fact that the somewhat dark, yet adventurous memory of leaving his old house, of all his memories, had popped into his head that night confused him. He diligently thought it over, very, very carefully, desperately seeking the explanation with all his might. …But, being Scout, he got bored of it after about twelve seconds. The runner hopped out of his bed and did his typical morning routine to get ready and face the new day.

After brushing his teeth, shooting some targets and getting changed, he checked the calendar and saw that today was a Payload battle. Scout groaned. Payload battles weren't terrible, but they had a bad habit of being long, boring sessions of pushing the damn, oversized cart for two hours. He wished it could've been a 'Capture the Flag battle.' Those were his favourite. The rush of stealing the enemy's briefcases were so much fun, and the bits of stealth that went into robbing the briefcases just added to the fun. Stealth was not his greatest strength, that was speed, but when Scout wanted to be stealthy, he was almost as good as Spy. Though, Spy's stealth-speed was quicker, and Spy was a bit quieter. And the fact Spy had watches that could turn him invisible just added to the Frenchman's superiority.

Scout hopped away over to the kitchen, humming a happy tune. It was Friday, he was gonna smash in some heads, shoot some guns, run around, and… And…

Scout stopped dead in his tracks and held his stomach, feeling odd. A bad feeling was brewing, and it wasn't his hunger. He had a strange suspicion something bad had happened. And when Scout felt those types of things, they were very rarely wrong. Grimacing, he hoped that this feeling would mean nothing in the end.

Backing away from foreboding thoughts, Scout opened the door to the kitchen with a big smile.

Pyro, Heavy, Medic, Sniper, Engineer and Demoman were already at the long, rectangular, oak wood table, eating a fine breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon. The kitchen itself was a fairly small, white room with common things you'd find in other ordinary kitchen. Spatulas, pots, pans, a microwave, an oven, a giant fridge, maces, various hidden guns placed in the drawers and knives. You know, ordinary things.

"Howdy, Scout!" smiled Engineer in typical friendly fashion, all the while whilst multitasking at eating toast and tinkering with what looked like an chain-gun upgrade for The Gunslinger.

"Mmmpho!" greeted Pyro with childish energy, waving its arms excitedly at the arrival of its best friend.

"Hey, guys!" grinned Scout, taking his seat at the table next to Pyro and Sniper, "What's goin' on wit' you guys?"

"Not much," coolly answered Sniper, munching on some bacon, "There's a Payload battle ta'day. You're gonna be pushing 'at cart around all ov'ah."

"Oh great, I was havin' a good day..." frowned Scout. Sniper merely chuckled and pushed a plate of eggs over to him. Scout smiled and began eating... But then frowned. Something was off. Scout looked up from eating the eggs on his plate, and noticed two empty chairs. Neither Soldier or Spy were there at the table. "Where's Sol'ja an' Spy?" he asked, confused.

"Soldat iz off getting ze mail," stated Medic, taking a sip of coffee, "Und Spy? God knows."

Scout gave a simple nod and continued eating his breakfast as Demoman continued telling a grand, heroic tale about a demon-catcher and his exploits to the present team members. Scout normally would've been as enthralled with the Scot's story alongside his teammates, as Demo was a terrific storyteller, but he tuned it out and focused on eating instead. He wasn't in the mood.

"So, the lad curiously peeked into th'ah burrow, lookin' aboot for River, Pokeo close behind. However, instead of seeing the nine-year-old lass… All tha' wuas there was ONE OF THA GHOSTS!"

"MMMMMMMPH!" Pyro shrieked, cowering under the table in fear.

"What…" frowned Heavy, "Leetle River was ghost whole time?"

"Nein, Heavy, za girl vas turned into a ghost by za hollows," explained Medic, "Zere vas no vay she was one of the ghosts za whole time. It iz not possible."

"Ah," smiled Heavy, "I see-"

Before Demo could get back to his story, however, the door suddenly slammed open and the war-crazy American, known by his fellows as The Soldier, marched in, carrying a handful of envelopes addressed to his teammates.

"YOUR MAIL'S HERE, MAGGOTS!" he shouted loudly. Most of the team looked up, expectantly. Only around half the team got letters from time to time, mainly Sniper, Engie, and occasionally, Demo and Heavy, and the rest usually got no letters from the lack of relatives. But, as opposed to what you may think, they watched the others read their letters with happiness. It was nice to see their friend's faces light up from receiving news from loved ones about usually lighthearted events from their old homes. Sort of a pleasant reminder of the ones they didn't have.

"Let's see, got a letter for Sniper… A couple for Engie… Five for Heavy… And…?" Soldier's somewhat happy expression dropped upon looking at the final envelope. There was no way… Was he reading it wrong? "One for… Scout…?"

Scout nearly choked on his eggs. "MAIL?!" he cried/coughed in disbelief, "?! 'OU SENT IT?! WHER'AHS IT FRUM?! WHY TA ME?!... –S-S-Sol! D-Dere's gotta be a mix-up! There's no way! I-I-I nev'ah get mail-"

"It's addressed to a RED Scout, by the name of Nathan Hawthorne," said Soldier evenly, "Doesn't say where it's from."

Scout looked at him and the envelope, stammering in disbelief. After around ten seconds of an uncomfortable, blanketing silence, Scout finally composed himself. "L-Lemme see it," he muttered at last, trying to keep his cool.

Soldier wordlessly handed Scout the letter as his teammates watched with unnameable interest. Scout held the crisp envelope with uncertainty. He read over the firm print of the address many times, and despite its familiarity, it gave him a bad vibe. He knew that handwriting, but he couldn't but his finger on where he had seen it before. Butterflies zipped around at light-speed in his belly as he slowly tore open the envelope and read the note inside. As he read through the tight printing, Scout's eyes gradually went from being normal sized to the proportion of dinner plates.

"Oh, fuck…" he whispered with alarm.

_Dear Nathan_

_It's been nearly five years since I last knew exactly where the hell you were. Now, I guess you can say I finally found your trail of breadcrumbs, or rather, Matthew did after receiving a job at Mann. Co and finding your name under the profile for a Scout in Reliable Excavation and Demolition. Nathan, I'm not even going to bother on lecturing you on the fact that running away and becoming a mercenary was the easily the lowest route you could've taken, so I'll cut straight to the chase:_

_Your mother is dying from a fast-acting lung cancer. She only has a few weeks left, and she wants all of us to be there in her final hours. It's a complete tragedy and it kills me to acknowledge this, but it's true. Her life is close to being over, and she wants you, and all your brothers, to be there before Death takes her by the hand. Your brothers are all coming, and I strongly urge you to do the same. Please come back home, just this once. For your mother's sake._

_Sincerely, Clark Hawthorne. Your father._

….No…

…

They weren't supposed to know where… Where he was... That… That was part of his contract… How did they find out?

…

His mom was dying? The woman who did nothing but watch soap operas while he was miserable and alone? It was bound to happen at some point, but… Why couldn't he bring himself to care…?

…

W-Why now? …WHY NOW?! Now, when he was with these guys that honestly cared about him, and him in return?! Those bastards back home wanted him to just up and LEAVE the only people he ever cared about behind, for THEM?! He didn't want to see his family! He didn't want to take a single step into Boston AGAIN! WHY WAS HE SUPPOSED TO ATTEND?! IT'S NOT LIKE THEY ACTUALLY CARED ABOUT HIM! **THEY DIDN'T WHEN HE WAS YOUNGER, SO WHY WOULD THEY NOW?! WHY SHOULD HE CARE?! **_**HOW. COME. THEY-**_

"Scout?" asked Medic, slightly nervous by Scout's sudden mood swings from happiness, to shock, to complete rage in under two minutes. "Are you… OK?"

Scout looked up from the horrible letter and at his now nervous comrades with the same reaction one would get after waking up from a startling dream. All of them were sharing the same look of confusion and fear, wondering what just happened.

Scout considered telling them. Telling them that he had just received a letter from the heartless bastards that suddenly, after nineteen years, considered him family. Telling them that his irresponsible mother was dying and that she, in a sick way, deserved it and all the pain that came with it. Telling them that his family now knew where he was and that after this… Might force him to leave the team _permanently._ Part of him didn't want to tell, but…

He trusted these people… He could tell them. Maybe they could help fix the problem. Maybe, he wouldn't have to go back to Boston at all. He would tell them.

"…I got a lett'ah…" muttered Scout at last, "…Frum my old man."

Everyone's eyebrows raised up towards the ceiling.

"'E said, that my Ma' was sick an' dyin' frum canc'ah… And that he wants me ta go back to Boston to be wit' 'er in 'er final hours..."

Silence.

"An' now... Apparently I gotta leave..."

"So… Why not goo?" asked Demo at last, "She'd be yer moth'ar… Shouldn't ya goo to 'er in 'er time 'o nee-?"

Scout slammed his fists against the table, "NO!" he shouted angrily, "I SHOULDN'T, CAUSE SHE WAS NEV'AH DERE F'AH ME! WHY SHOULD I?! DAT'S DA FUCKIN' PROBLEM, I HATE THAT BITCH! HELL, I HATE MY WHOLE FUCKIN' FAMILY! DAT'S WHY I RAN AWAY IN DA FIRST PLACE!"

Everyone looked at Scout like he had just grown a second head. A lot of questions they may have had about the baseball fanatic had just been answered, but a million more just took the earlier questions' places. No one spoke for what felt like hours.

Surprisingly, Heavy was the first one to respond the nineteen-year-old.

"Leetle Scout… Run away from family?"

Scout was about to open his mouth to make a smartass remark, but then realized he now had so much to say. He frowned and slunk back into his plastic chair. There was no way around it anymore… He'd have to tell them EVERYTHING now. He closed his blue eyes, let out a sigh, and slid off his baseball cap. The boy proceeded to run a bandaged hand through his short, brown hair as he composed himself once again.

"Do ya really wanna hear the goddamn story?" asked Scout. His teammates slowly nodded in response. Scout flopped his hat back on his head and leaned back on his chair with a frown.

"Ok, you bast'ahds asked for it," he said emotionlessly, "Now you getta hear the story of da Scout."


	2. The Tale of the Baseball Fan

**A/N: GUESS WHO GOT A STUPID IMAGE PICTURE? ME! I DREW MYSELF! … It is horrible! You can barely tell it's fifteen-year-old Scout…. Aw well. It's there until I find a better one, so what'evs I guess... Anywho, here's chapter 2. ^-^**

**Anyways, I don't mean to sound pathetic, but… CAN I PLEASE HAVE SOME REVIEWS?! It helps me! Really! :( Especially Constructive Criticism, as I wanna improve.**

**All that said… I do not own TF2. I wish I did. But I don't. With all that outta the way, I hope you enjoy this chapter. :D**

Seven pairs of eyes were now on Scout, all waiting expectedly for the runner to begin his story. Angry at himself for squealing about his leaving of his original home, and now being pretty much forced to reveal everything about his past to his teammates, Scout frustratedly collected himself and wondered where to begin. Now, he was no genius, but he figured that when you tell a story, you should start from the beginning. A scowl crossed his features. This was gonna be a long day. Scout sighed once again, and began his tale.

"Here we go," frowned Scout, "'Kay, once upon na time, dere was a perfect fam'lly. Da Pa was a mechanic, and da Ma was a part-time waitress, part-time stay-at-home-mommy. Da two 'a them 'ad seven little shits. Dey was happy. Den I got born an' every'thin went ta hell. De end."

"Scout," growled Sniper, with an unamused look.

Scout rolled his eyes. "Fine… Da seven little shits were all muscular, with either dere fathah's golden hair an green eyes, or dere ma's coal hair an' coal eyes. All of 'em were either real muscular or book smart, or artistic in a few cases. Sumtimes all three. Perfect family, with perfect children. …Den I was born. An' as you can plainly sees…" said Scout, gesturing to his brown hair, blue eyes and wiry frame, "I was a bit different. I was doomed from da beginnin' I guess. Unlike my tough broth'ahs, like Reese, I was born ta run, not ta play football. And unlike the real keen ones, like Johnny, I wasn't book smart, neither, an' unlike Seth or Lukas I couldn't do shit with paint or instruments. So… What to do wit' myself? All I did as a kid, most'a the time, was play alone. Usually in da cellar, or da attic, 'cause I was the only kid in da house who wasn't afraid of the furnace, or a'lergic ta dust."

Scout looked down to the wood for a second as he thought nostalgically back to the misadventures he had as a child with his imaginary friends and their little kingdom in the quieter corners of his house and the whole city of Boston. He had been the King, the made up creatures had been his friendly subjects, and he had played with them every day after school for hours on end. All the good times he had with them… He couldn't help but sadly smile as he remembered his lame scenarios and the childish innocence he had back in those days. But the memory quickly departed, as he had an audience to continue talking to.

"…Yeah, I was kinda alone back den... Just ta add ta th'ah fun, Pa had the humor of an F.B.I agent an' no matt'ah what I did, 'e was never impressed wit' me… I tried so hard to impress 'im… But he just wanted nothin' ta do wit' me. Den dere was Ma. And Ma… She wasn't mean, or nothin', but… She was always busy. She nev'ah had time f'ah me. Sure, she held me a few times… But whenever she looked at me, it was like I hurt 'er some'ow, when I didn't do nothin'… She made me feel guilty f'ah no reason. And it hurt. It hurt a lot."

Medic noticed something: Upon getting into the discussion of his mother, Scout's gaze had hardened, and he had begun to tighten the bandages on his hands. A habit he had whenever he was tense. And his teammates knew it all too well. Scout usually did this whenever an 'Auto-Balance,' had been announced, or when the atmosphere was bleak, or when he was downright scared. This, being such a sensitive topic for Scout, was completely understandable.

Medic, coming from a family that chose to ignore him as well due to his… _Interests_… Related nearly entirely to Scout. But it was then Medic noticed another thing; After dozens of checkups, operations, and experiences on the field, he had never seen Scout's hands without the bandages wrapped around them. Oh great, another question: What was under the cloth, exactly? He figured he'd ask at a more appropriate time.

Scout continued.

"I got the idea ta run away when I was nine. But, since the thought scared me at da time, I stayed. I still thought about it, though. I would've been alone in da cellar f'ahevah… But shortly after, things looked my way for a bit. One of my brothers finally noticed me as more than just the untalented runt of the family, more dan jus' a kid: A friend. Dat broth'ah was Ritchie. Da third oldest… Oh my god, Ritchie… Me an' him did every'thin ta'gethah. He's da one who got me in'ta baseball, too," Scout began smiling ear to ear, remembering all the times he fondly waited for his brother after school and having fun with him, "We wrecked stuff, played pranks, went explorin', an' just had a ton 'a laughs, ya know? Man, I rememb'ah dis one time where… Where…"

Scout's joy left as soon as it came, as he then remembered the sad events that followed.

"Well… I de-gress. One day, when I was twelve, Ritchie had gotten 'imself a job. Lat'uh, I found out that 'e was actually working 'ere as a RED Scout in some Unit specialized in stakeout Ops, but for th' sake 'a th' rules of tellin' no one aside new recruits about the Secret Wars, he told us a cover-up story dat 'e was in, 'Demolition.' Everyone was proud-a him. …But 'e was outta town a lot, because it was far away. I was so upset, an' I tried ta run away again, but Ritchie insisted dat he did care about me… So I stayed. But it still sucked. He visited whenever 'e could, and he sent lett'ahs a lot, but… I just wasn't the same as seein' 'im every day, y'know? Also, just ta add ta it, I was havin' a shit time at home, an' a shit time at school, too. Ma wasn't home as often, an' neither was Pops. Which left me all alone wit' my brothahs, who all either ignored me or fought wit' me. So… I spent most'ah my time alone outside, getting my anger out on other people. Went from being bullied to being a bully. Sure, I had a couple friends here an' there, like this guy who helped at Grocery store named Darrel, or dis old lady named Michelle, but, well… I wasn't that close ta them. This continued till I was thirteen, 'bout a month away ta goin' on fourteen… Then… Then _**it **_happened."

Scout shuddered at the memory and felt his eyes sting.

"Apparently, at Ritchie's, 'workplace,' dere was a gunfight, an' 'e was stuck in da middle of it… Bullet nicked 'is fuckin' heart…" tears began streaming off Scout face, "We threw a funeral for 'im… An' dat was it for me. I made a plan to run ta Chicago, and about a month of plannin', it worked. Then about two years late'ah, I met up wit' da Administrator and got the job here."

Scout didn't speak again for a long time. He left out the part of the story where his father comforted his brothers with a speech about each of them, and a giant hug, assuring that they were a family and that they'd move on… _While leaving Nathan out, and not including him in any part of it. _Just the sheer fact his father had forgotten him, during such an emotionally traumatizing moment, was enough to make him start sobbing. Scout had also left out the part of Nathan running off into the rain, miserably and crying his eyes out, only to notice the rain had stopped, and to look up in the sky to see nothing but a giant, fucking Rainbow. A happy, magic thing, laughing at him as if it wanted to rub it in his face. A month later, he had ran away, and lived in Chicago for a bit Things had been smooth for a while, but after about a month of hiding, the police had finally caught him. He thought he was toast… Then he met the Administrator, who got him out of the police's hands. After getting to safety, she had then offered a deal; To join the Mann Wars as a mercenary for RED. At first, he refused, thinking it was just nonsense. Then, she revealed that Ritchie had been working for her before he died. He had been shocked. She had given him Ritchie's old Scattergun, files and dog-tags. Also, just to add to the list of reasons to enlist, if he joined, he wouldn't have to worry about the police trying to take him home ever again, as he'd be protected by the Company. After looking through the files of his brother, he realized how awesome it was. And who was he to refuse safety from the police, an enormous paycheque, honoring Ritchie's name and to be havin' fun while doin it all? And so, taking Ritchie's old Class – Nathan had died, and had been reborn as a Scout.

"An' now you's is up ta speed," said Scout, wiping the tears away, "De end."

No one said a word.

"So… Do… Do any of ya got any idea as ta how I can gets outta dis?" Scout pleaded, "Any idea? At all?"

Still silence.

Finally, Engineer cleared his throat.

"Son, I had no idea you'd been through that much shit, but… Ah don' think there is a way out," said Engie, somberly, "You should go home, an' see your ma."

Scout gave Engineer a horrified look, which almost immediately turned into intense rage. How dare he. **How dare he**. He had told them the story of his life, told them about all the shit he had been through, and that was all the advice he had?!

"GO BACK!?" snapped Scout, infuriated.

"I'm tryin' ta help ya," reasoned Engie, being patient as he always was with Scout, "I'll be honest with ya, Scout: Yer life was shit, and yer mad at yer Mother fer not helpin' ya through it, I can completely understand that. But, the lady's gotta be real upset about it if she wants you to come while she's on her deathbed, ain't she? If she wasn't, we wouldn't be havin' this discussion, now would we?"

Scout thought it over for a minute. Engie did have a point. Perhaps his Ma was sorry.

"Look, ya need ta settle th' score with yer family. Runnin' away ain't gonna solve nothing. After all, ya cain't run free with loads a 'guilty baggage dangling from yer shoulders, can ya?"

Scout gave a slow, emotionless nod in understanding.

"So, ya see em once, and when the event's over, ya come right back ta us, an' you'll never half'ta see 'em again. Don't that sound nice?"

"…You got a point…" mumbled Scout, grudgingly.

"Rioght," smiled Sniper, supporting Engie and Scout, "So, we'll tell the Administrat'ah about the situation, since I'm pretty sure this falls under a good category to put us on standby for a while, and you get a handle on your family situation. It sucks, but ya gotta remember that they're yer family, kid. An' it's only for a few weeks, anyway. Then ya come back, an' every 'thin goes back'ta normal, al'rioght?"

Scout nodded, though it was forced. It was forced, because Sniper had it all wrong. The cold people in the ugly, blue house, 28th on Merle Street, were not his family, for the eight, crazy Mercenaries he fought with on the battlefield with were. Engie was like the daddy who supported you and kept you safe, Soldier was like the crazy grandfather who'd snap and start ranting about how hard things were when he was a kid and how well off you were in comparison, Heavy and Pyro were like fun brothers to pull pranks with, while Spy was like the cynical, cool older brother whom you'd snicker at people with behind their backs with. Medic was like the weird uncle who hid in the basement, but was still there to share with you and tell you about the things he had discovered, Demo was like the awesome uncle who got you odd souvenirs and told you stories that blew your mind, and Sniper was like the adventurous uncle who brought you along for explorations to the middle of nowhere and had your back at all times. Being told that suddenly he was to forget about them and reconnect with his old family was an atrocious thought to him because of how strong a bond he had formed with these guys. But they had a point: He had to tie the loose ends. Then he and the team could be together - hopefully forever.

Soldier put a firm, calloused hand on Scout's shoulder.

"Son, if it helps… We can go with you to Boston if you want. We'll camp out in a hotel nearby, or something like that, and be there if things get to ugly for ya… If that's ok with ya."

Yes, he would've loved it. He would've loved nothing more than knowing the guys were behind his back at all times. …But he knew he had to say no. This was his problem. His baggage. It was his responsibility to toss it. Besides, he knew these people. They wouldn't like being in Boston, and they'd probably barge into his house during dinner to introduce themselves. And, knowing how, 'traditional,' his old man was, he'd kick them out after three minutes and afterwards, do what he would to make sure his son was as far away from them as possible. His Dad didn't like to listen to his son, but he didn't want him near any, 'bad influences.' After all, Clark Hawthorne was a complete dick in every sense of the word.

"No, Sold'ja. Danks for the off'ah though, it… It means a lot ta me."

Soldier gave a gruff nod and drew his hand away. Medic looked over to Scout from the other end of the table, and pushed his lenses towards his eyes.

"Vill you be alright?" he asked, seriously. The boy gave a small nod in response.

Scout pushed himself up from the table, plate empty.

"Bett'ah get packin', huh?" asked Scout, dreadful expression ever apparent on his face.

Everything happened within a few hours. Medic had informed the Administrator of the news, and the woman had grudgingly agreed to Scout's temporary departure, as long as he returned ASAP after his Mother died. The team was to remain on indefinite standby until then.

Scout had packed his few belongings, just like how he had done that night so many moons ago, and looked out his window to the sandy seas of Dustbowl with longing. He wanted to run… Not pack to go to the one place he hated most. But he knew better. Scout bitterly threw in some comic books as he reconsidered the whole thing. Going was the right thing to do… But why did it feel so wrong?

At the strike of eight fifty PM, everyone piled into Sniper's van and drove off, with the exception of Spy. No one could find him anywhere. Scout was quite curious as to where the French spook had gone, but he figured he had 'Spy stuff,' to do elsewhere, and had 'forgotten' to leave a note again. After a long ride through the desert, the RED Unit unfortunately arrived at the station.

They piled out of the van and onto the Train Station. Scout shuffled slightly in his boots at the wooden train platform as the train pulled up next to them.

"So… Dis is it?" he asked, quietly. Everyone gave a sad nod.

Pyro gave Scout a hug.

It was then that the Bostonian couldn't hold it in anymore. He started crying.

"I-I DON'T WA-WANNA FUCKIN' G-G-GO…!" He sobbed, squeezing Pyro, much to the firebug's and everyone else's surprise, "I w…wanna stay with… You g-g-guys… …F-Fuck… Fuck my old family! You guys're… Da closest t-thing I got to one… Don't m-make me go back!" He began wailing, tears began streaming off his face as he kept bawling pathetically, like a small child. He didn't want to leave. Not now, not ever.

Heavy put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Ees Ok," he said warmly through his ridiculously thick accent, "We will be here for leetle Scout when he gets back. Ees only for short time, da?"

Scout cried a little bit more, but it eventually died down to being sniffles.

"Righto, lad," smiled Demo, "We're just a telephone call away, and it'll be alright in th' end, yeah? So… Dry them tears and stop cryin'."

Scout wiped them away.

"Besides," grinned Soldier, "It's not, 'Goodbye,' it's, 'See you again soon,' right?"

Scout smiled a little. "Yeah… You guys are right."

"You had best get going, Kaninchen, za Conductor is getting impatient."

Scout wiped away one last tear, and stepped into the train car. He watched as his teammates went farther and farther away until they were completely out of sight. Part of him wanted to keep crying, but he ignored it. He sat down in the cushiony seat of the train booth and got himself comfortable. He knew that they were indeed just a call away, and, like they said, a few weeks wasn't a very long time.

With this in mind, Scout tipped the rim of his cap, and went to sleep.

**A/N: I have a feeling that the last scene was a bit over-dramatic back there…**

**Anywho, I hope you all liked it! :)**


	3. Home, dead Home

**A/N: Hello again. There are people still reading this crap? Colour me surprised. Not much to say for this chapter. I was hoping on a bit more time with the team, but I couldn't fit them in.**

**Internet Oreo/Chocolate Chip/Whatever-Flavour-You-Like cookie if you can see the blatantly obvious Portal reference close to the end of the chapter.**

**I do NOT own TF2. If I did, I'd die from happiness. …And you'd all hate it from my awful writing.**

"Wake up, Scout," said the conductor, nudging the sleeping form of the boy on the train's floor. He didn't actually know the boy's name, but judging by his dog-tags and his build alone, he could tell which of the Nine Classes he was with ease. Besides, Scouts tended to be the sloppiest of the Classes when it came to things outside the battlefield for some reason, and for that, the chubby conductor hated Scouts. The nineteen year old just mumbled a little and rolled onto his belly, sleepily. This irked conductor, and his frown stretched wider. "Damn it, you, Scout! Wake up, your stop is here!"

Scout blearily opened his eyes and looked at the portly conductor standing above him. He was a currently quite cross with the baseball fan, the look of frustration ever apparent on his features. Scout looked up at him for a bit, sleepily.

"Wuzzat?" he asked, at last.

The conductor's eyes narrowed as he angrily began spelling out why.

"Your. Stop. Is. Here. GET. OFF. THE. TRAIN."

"I'm on a train?" Scout asked, puzzled. His memory tended to take a while to reboot itself after he first woke up.

"Yes, you are. And I'm a very busy man. Now, GET OFF MY EXPRESS."

Scout did not like this man, as he was being a prick towards the baseball fan. So, he did what he always did: Insult without thinking first. "Gladly, lard ass. No need to shout, I mean, dis place is like a dump anyway."

Scout's face hit the gravel beside the train harder than he thought the conductor could throw.

"Douche," he growled, holding his bleeding nose.

Only now did the memory of his departure resurface itself, leaving Scout feeling angry. Then… Depressed, actually. One of Scout's biggest weaknesses was that he hated being alone. It was odd, really. He didn't mind a little bit of quiet to think things over here and there, but most of the time, he liked knowing that there was someone behind his back (that wasn't an enemy Spy) to have a conversation with. …Except for his family, of course. Which he was going to see…

Fuck.

Scout picked himself off the gravel and grumbled a little as he wandered out of the train station, praying fruitlessly that Demoman and/or Soldier had somehow came to Boston with him, drunk and senseless, and 'accidently' blew up his old house. Of course, that was wishful thinking and nothing more, but it was a nice thought.

As he wandered around, he noted that while a few things were different here and there, like this old restaurant he had never been to before being turned into a bookstore, or a place that was once for rent being turned into a condo, Boston hadn't changed much from when had last been to the city. There were still skyscrapers, people driving around the street, children beating each other up, Spy, the old library -

…Wait, Spy?

Over at a small, ordinary café, under the shade of an umbrella over a plastic table, sat Scout's infamous teammate in all his masked glory. The Spy, garbed in his expensive suit and mask, took a sip from a small cup of coffee, somewhat depressingly. The Frenchman was so out of place amidst the ordinary people of Boston, there was no way Scout couldn't have seen the classy assassin. Before he knew it, he was heading over to the older Class. He came up to him from behind, and poked his shoulder.

"Spy?" he asked, trying to make sure. His suspicion was confirmed as Spy's blue eyes peered over to Scout's, looking a bit surprised.

"Scout?" he asked, a little perplexed, "What would you be doing 'ere?"

Scout didn't feel like explaining his past again. He didn't want to share his story with Spy. He figured he'd just lie. Besides, Spy lied all the time. Equivalent exchange, after all.

"Meh. The high'uh ups forced me to take a holiday, and refused ta let me stay at the base, and Boston was the cheapest place fah me ta go, so... I took da train, and here I am. Can I sit?"

"Oui," murmured Spy, uncannily unfocused, offering Scout a seat whilst taking another sip of coffee. Scout took a seat at the table, and suddenly remembered the café he was at. It was Miss Marie's Café. Why it was called that, when the owner was named Harold Smith, he had no idea, but he didn't care. He and his brothers had been there a few times when he was around seven years old. He remembered loving it more than the playground nearby, and always getting a cherry flavoured smoothie and smearing it all over his face. Never banana, never blueberry, (especially not blueberry, he HATED blueberries) never strawberry, always cherry. He remembered loving this place, but he and his family had stopped going after a while. Something about Lukas's allergy to almonds. Which was funny, since they kept buying and eating coconuts, when Nathan had an allergy to them.

"So, uh…" began Scout, "What're ya doin' here?"

Spy looked over to Scout for a minute, as if wondering what to say. He did answer after a while, though.

"Zhere is someone in zhis city I was assigned to assassinate," he said, simply, "Once I find 'im, I will take the first train back to Dustbowl." He appeared calm, but secretly, he was praying harder than he had in years that Scout wouldn't ask any further questions and let this conversation slide. Much to his surprise, his praying worked. Scout simply nodded in understanding, wordlessly leaned back on the plastic chair and looked up at the blue skies with an sad look in his eyes.

"Dat's cool, I guess…" he muttered. Suddenly, an idea flashed through his head, and his mood lightened a great deal. "Can go kills him wit' ya?"

Scout was a bit more blood thirsty than he let on, and yet it was still a bit surprising each time he made it relevant. Still, Spy shook his head.

"Non, this iz a Spy's job. You are a good assassin, but I do not 'ave time to tutor you, as I must do zis quickly," he said, "Besides, should you not go see to your moth'air?"

Scout's joy died like it had just been stabbed with one of Spy's daggers, and he gave him a look that was filled to the very brim with hatred and loathing. Spy mentally slapped himself for bringing up such a sensitive and hurtful topic and braced himself for a long, swear-filled, immature argument. But instead, much to his surprise, the younger Class stood, tipped his cap and walked off.

"Nice talkin' ta you too, ya slimy, sociopathic piece 'a shit."

Spy watched him leave, and went back to his coffee, a bit shocked at the lack of a long series of hateful comments from the Bostonian. Being told he was a piece of shit was not at all polite, but Scout had a bad habit of staying and arguing about little things until he had felt that his ego had been stroked enough. Perhaps Scout, the childish teammate he had grown to know (seemingly) so well, really was maturing. Or maybe, Spy had just had a glimpse of Nathan without his mask. After all… Fabric was not the only way one could disguise themselves.

(-)

Scout took a left at Darren street, re-memorizing the roads he had taken daily years ago from his walks home from school. It was funny how four years felt like such a long time. He marched past the Mulholland's house and took the shortcut through Mr. Johansson's bushes like he used to do as a child. He went this way and that, humming a song he had heard once called, 'Exile Vilify,' until the bright, blue sign of Merle street hung before him in pristine, white letters.

He walked along until house 28 stood before him.

There she was, blue, ugly, chipped and, honestly, larger than he had remembered. Odd. Weren't things supposed to get smaller as people grew up? His father's old, black mustang and his brown pickup truck stood in the center of the tar driveway, both as old as the hills, and his mother's flower garden was still there in the front yard, but seemed a bit sick, kinda like their caretaker. The tulips were paler than they normally were, the daisies were a bit withered and the daffodils drooped over slightly. Probably since his mother was diagnosed as deathly ill, his Father had been forced to take care of them for her. And, knowing how _nurturing _his Father was, he obviously hadn't done a good job. He walked a few paces up the driveway, ignoring his screaming instincts to run away at full speed, and approached the door – But before he was close enough, the door was opened by a man. And not just any man.

His father.

Clark Hawthorne looked over to the former Nathan Hawthorne with his dead looking green eyes, like he always used to. The Father and the Son looked nearly nothing alike. Scout was skinny with a lean, with a thin, acrobatic build, while his father still had the muscles from his years as a quarterback. Nathan had sparking blue eyes and short brown hair, that if allowed to grow, would've been as spikey as a porcupine's, while his father had light green, deathly and dull eyes and straight blond hair that somehow never caught the sun's rays. The only thing that was even remotely the same about either of them were the serious frowns that were currently on their faces.

"Nathan," said Clark, curtly.

"Pops," replied Scout, tersely.

Clark coldly gestured for his son to come in, and Scout did just that. He walked into the old house, boards creaking under his weight as he seemingly emotionless entered the foyer with secret unease. Not much had changed. The same pictures hung on the walls, the wooden floors and walls were exactly the same, and the feeling that he just walked into a cemetery was ever apparent as the doors creaked shut behind him. Scout turned towards Nathan's father, and his Father looked towards Scout.

"Welcome home." He said, with typical heartlessness.


	4. The not-so-new Floor Plans

**A/N: Ha ha ha…. Two new Reviews. :) Love it.**

**Here's chapter four, I guess… Not like more than seven out of a gazillion people are reading it, but I dun care. :3**

Scout looked towards the man he hadn't seen in years with both well hidden hatred and intimidation. The idea of Scout not holding the slightest intimidation from Nathan's Father was impossible. The man still held that deathly vibe to him that left mild shivers down his spine, and Clark's cold way of talking with blunt yet incredibly sharp words made him always made him feel judged whenever he was in the older man's presence. But his intimidation was, by far, overshadowed from a sheer hatred larger than a storm ten times the size Godzilla. That was how he had greeted his son after four years. No tear-filled,_ 'Welcome back home, Nathan, we missed you so much!'_ Or a fairly caring,_ 'Where have you been all these years?'_ Or, even better, a simple question that at least showed slight interest, _'Why did you run away?'_ Nope. All that he said, basically, was:_** 'Welcome to our morgue.'**_

Scout looked away from Nathan's Father's gaze and instead looked around the house for any other signs of kindly life, or movement besides his twitching fingers, though he was unsuccessful. Odd. Weren't his Brothers supposed to be there?

"Where are the others?" asked Scout, changing the subject.

"Your Brothers are still heading here, and your Mother's asleep upstairs, you should wait until she wakes up before you go see her by the way. Also, we've made extensions to the house about two years after your _'departure._' You can put your luggage and pick nearly any room you want, except, obviously, for the occupied ones. I have to leave right now, since I need to buy more pain killers for your Mother. See you later, Nathan," he turned to leave, but before he headed out the door, he gave a most unreadable, almost out of character line, "Don't run off."

Scout watched as Nathan's Father left the house wordlessly. Good to know his dear-old Daddy hadn't changed much. As the door closed itself with finality, Scout shoved his bandaged hands into his pockets and decided, since he had nothing better to do, to look around Nathan's old house.

Ground level floor was nearly the same. Besides an updated T.V and a few recent magazines issues, the place was hadn't changed. The Kitchen, The Foyer, (Minus some stuffed toys) The Family Room, Living Room and Dining Room were all the same. The only giant difference was a new Rec Room, filled with papers and office supplies. Upstairs had changed quite a bit though. The old bedroom he had shared with his brothers had now been split apart into two separate rooms. One of them was a guest bedroom, and the other was an art room, filled with some of Nathan's Mother's paintings, and some rather childish sketches done rather strangely. Perhaps his Mother was experimenting with new styles? Nathan wouldn't know, as he wasn't artistic unless murder was involved. A couple new rooms here and there, with nothing to report. Nathan eventually found what he was looking for, though: The door to the attic.

Oh… The attic. He used to dread that place. He still remembered Reese tugging down the string to bring down the horrendous wooden ladder of doom, and dragging poor little Nathan by the collar of his shirt up there, then locking him in for hours on end. The first few times, it terrified him. After a while, though, he loved it just as much as the cellar. He decided to, 'Extend his Empire,' to both the cellar and the attic, and it had been awesome up there. Nobody went up in the attic unless it was Christmas, so Nathan had thrived in there as a small child. Eventually, seeing how it wasn't a punishment for his little brother anymore, Reese had stopped doing that and Nathan had gone in and out by his own free will. Scout tugged the ladder sown and crawled up into the old place he had once labeled as his, _'Realm of Coolness.'_

And grinned ear to ear.

It hadn't changed at all! He gave a small chuckle and went inside. A light coat of dust covered everything, like it always had, the seven spare mattresses lay in the corner in all their cheap, foam-filled glory, and a few boxes covered the entrance to his secret crawl space. Along with all that, the giant, semi-circular window in the front wall still remained, allowing daylight to spill into the place like a flood. Seeing as how no one else would bother to take this dusty, old room, Scout began making accommodations to his stay.

He took one mattress, a spare blanket and pillow, and lay it down on the floor. Having gotten used to the stiff beds in the Wars, Scout was more comfortable sleeping on the floor as opposed to a comfy bedstead, and this humble mattress would do nicely. He then took his suitcase, put it next to the mattresses, and smiled, as everything was now accomplished. …What's that you say? That's it? Yes, it was. Scout did not care much for material objects. He only brought the essentials: His clothes, toothbrush, comic books and his baseball equipment. That was all the lad needed. There was nothing more for him to do.

…Which left him bored out of his mind.

…God, he missed his teammates-!

_Ring Ring…_

Scout's trained ears caught the soft chime of a bell. It's source was the Master Bedroom. Scout gingerly walked out of the attic and towards the white door to the Room.

And upon opening the door, had his heart skip twelve beats.

In the big, dim, candle lit room was a big white bed and a sickly woman lying in it. She had pale skin, black, greying, slightly curled hair, glassy dark eyes and the slightest of wrinkles forming around her cheeks. The woman was Blair Hawthorne. His dying Mother.

His Ma looked up weakly, half-awake towards the door. Scout honestly didn't know how to feel in this circumstance. Misery, for the soon-to-come death of his Ma? Regret, for running away? As sick as it sounded… Relief, as this was the last bit of time he'd see her? Pity, for the once healthy, confident woman lying sick in front of him? There was no proper way he could view it… It was just too complicated. …Scout HATED complicated stuff…

"W-Who're you?" questioned Blair, voice raspy and cracking, "You… You look real familiars…"

Scout looked around a little, then turned his gaze to the floor.

"…Cheddy," he said, referencing his six-year-old title for cherries, his favourite fruit.

Blair's eyes widened in shock. Slowly, she rose up to a sitting position on the bedspread, mouth agape, and looked at her little Nathan's face, studying his features.

"…N… Nathan?" she asked in complete shock. Scout nodded in confirmation.

"H-Holy shit… Come heres…" she murmured.

Scout approached the ill woman and sat next to her on the bed sheets. Slowly, she raised a calloused, old hand with faded scars towards him and gently touched his face. She read his eyes as she began confirming her relation to the nineteen year old as he looked back to hers with pity.

"You grew up," she whispered in disbelief.

"I know, right?" said Scout with a half-hearted smile, "Still feel like I'm twelve. …Ma, I'm-"

"I'm so sorry, Nathan."

Scout paused. What? What did she did say?

"What was dat?" asked Scout, confused.

"I was such an awful Moth'ah to ya," said Blair, on the verge of tears, "I want ya ta know sum'thin: Re'gardless 'a how we treated ya… We always loved ya. Remem'bah dat."

Scout joyfully surprised expression suddenly combusted in flames. He frowned and bit back his rage.

"Bullshit." he snarled. On that note, he stormed away and slammed the door behind him before his Mother could say anything else.

He was about to go back into the attic, until Scout heard the chime of the doorbell. Was Nathan's Dad back already? Or was it one of Nathan's Brothers? He quietly hopped out of the attic and down the stairs towards the already open front door – And was shocked to see none of his assumptions. Instead, there was a little girl.

She looked about five years old, wearing a red sweater, a pink skirt and black hunting boots. A toy rabbit dangled from her arms and a surprised look covered her features. The main details that struck him the most though, was that she looked almost exactly like he did as a kid, minus the long ponytail. Skinny, small, straight chocolate brown hair and cobalt blue eyes. Had the child been a boy, the youth would've been an exact duplicate.

"Who're you?" asked Scout, looking curiously to the nervous child.

Just then, his Father's Pickup Truck pulled into the driveway, and Clark marched into the house with a brown paper bag filled with groceries. He looked down to the child with the same emotionless look.

"You walked home again?" he asked, curiously, "I was gonna pick you up at the school."

The girl hugged her rabbit closely and store at the floor, avoiding the older man's gaze. Clark looked over to Scout.

"Oh, I see you two have met," he said, putting a hand on the girl's shoulder, and gestured towards Nathan, "Sweet-heart, this is one of your older brothers, Nathan."

He looked over to Scout.

"Nathan… This is your little sister, Ally."

**A/N: Sorry for the short chapter. :)**

**Anyways... Thank you to all the people who have read the bore of a tale that is this story, and I hope ta hear from ya next time.**


	5. Meet the Sister

**A/N: Holy Mother of Pingas, I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, even though it is a bit short. :D**

**Originally, I was gonna introduce Scout's brothers, but I've decided to wait for a little while before I bring them into play.**

**Anyways: I would like to thank xXReviewManXx for a lovely plate of Internet cookies, Lord of 34 and Anomnion for nice reviews, and Massacrerose for being not only my first reviewer for this story, but giving me some epic ideas for another one! :D Thanks to you guys, and all the people who favourited and/or for following it.**

**And yes, I did somewhat inspire a few moments from Clannad in here, too. The reason if any of you anime geeks (And I mean that in the best way) notice the similarities, is my lack of creativity and you got the right to send hate mail. :) I hope you enjoy the cuteness, anyway.**

Scout sat on the couch as a Micky Mouse cartoon played, trying to soothe his complete and unfathomable rage. Not only did his Father have barely anything to say to him, **after he had DISSAPPERED FOR FOUR GODDAMN YEARS, **he had left out the fact that he now had a little sister running about the house that no one ever told him about. Well, his Dad may have upstairs with his Mother at the moment, but the kid was by no means his responsibility. She could disappear, for all he cared. He didn't know her. She didn't know him. It was OK if he forgot about her. Scout put his hands behind his head, ready to fall asleep, already tired of the day at a record time of 5:34 PM. He was just drifting off to sleep when:

_Scuffle._

Scout irritably turned his head towards the door of the living room on his left, where his little sister stood. Upon almost meeting his eyes, she gasped and ducked behind the wall next to the door, trying and failing to hide her presence. Scout rolled his eyes. Heavy was stealthier than she was.

"I know your there, kid," growled Scout, "Whaddya want?"

Silence.

Scout turned his head towards the door in confusion. Perhaps he was using too dictating of a tone? But within five seconds, he realized his concern was pointless, as she wasn't there anymore. Odd. Well, seeing as how she was naught more than four years old, she probably saw something shiny and scurried off.

He continued to watch the black and white animalistic characters chase each other on the screen, wondering why an animation company had picked a mouse of all animals to represent them, until he felt something tug his right pant leg. He peered down and jumped back a little in surprise at the sight of the little girl crouched down there. Ok… Maybe she was a bit stealthy. And on the verge of tears. She holding a toy turtle with four wheels under its shell, with a broken wheel.

She mumbled some nonsense about the object and handed him the toy, "Fixit?"

Scout apathetically looked at the toy, then to her. She was looking towards him, blue eyes urging him to do something about it. Scout, despite his ego screaming at him to kick the kid, got up and went over to the kitchen to find some glue, Alley nervously trotting behind him. He walked into the cream-themed kitchen and began searching through the wooden cupboards.

After inspecting them thoroughly, he finally found the hard-to-reach-glue bottle.

"Gimme the toy," said Scout, sternly. Alley waveringly handed over the turtle, and Scout immediately began fixing it. He put in a dab of glue and carefully attached the wheel in its socket. …There, he was done in under twenty seconds. Why were kids so freaking dumb? He handed the toy back to the four year old.

"Ok," said Scout, "Wait a few minutes before you play with it, or the wheel will get stuck."

Alley took back the turtle and ran off with it to who-knows-where while Scout rolled his eyes and decided to grab himself a snack. He looked through the fridge, seeking something light and tasty. After discovering a mysterious block of cheese, Scout was about to bite off a giant chunk… When Alley came running back to him with the toy again.

"Wheel's stuck," she explained. Scout slapped himself on the forehead.

"Well, what did ya expect, idiot?" he growled. Alley shuddered while fearfully taking a few steps back, and looked to the floor, miserably. Suddenly, Scout felt a pang of an emotion he hadn't experienced in a long time – Empathy. He was suddenly reminded of one of his awful childhood memories. It was fuzzy, but it was something about an expensive family-photograph and being forced to dress up fancy. Everyone had been so serious, and Nathan had been trying to make a funny face for the camera. A smack across his face and an enormous lecture from his daddy was the result. From there on out, he hated special occasions like that. Though it didn't have much to do with the current situation, Alley somehow sort of brought back those memories… And he didn't like it. At the same time, though… Perhaps it was because he was behaving like his Daddy would if he was a fast-talking, Bostonian Mercenary? Maybe being a bit more… Blegh…. _Gentle, _might help take the guilt away. …Damn, he hated children.

"I mean, I told ya so, right? Why would I have said dat if I wasn't tellin' da truth?" asked Scout, trying his very best to be sweet towards the child, despite the fact he had the urge to laugh at her, "…Anyways, I'm real sorrys, but I can't fixit nows."

Alley looked up at him, upset.

"But it's not like you can't still play wit'…. What's its name?"

"Tut-Tut." Said Alley.

"…Tut-Tut. So, it can't roll on da ground anymore, dat sucks bawls, but it can fly now! Don't dat sound cooler?"

Alley seemed to think this over in her four-year-old brain and looked to the toy thoughtfully. She then gave the slightest of smiles, and ran down the hall with it, making vrooming noises.

"Stupid kid," muttered Scout, "'Er fault da stupid turtle broke." He however pushed these thoughts aside, and looked to the cheese in his left hand. Finally about to get to eating some damn food. He took a giant bite of block… And spat it all into the sink, disgusted at its bitter flavour. Even the FOOD Nathan's Dad ate was bitter!

Well, didn't this suck.

Just then… Something else happened. He got the bad feeling again. He grunted a little at the unpleasant feeling, and held his churning stomach in dread. Something awful had just happened, and he didn't know what. He could only pray it had nothing to do with the team.

(-)

Sniper, Medic and Demoman sat at the moonlit kitchen table, three (and a half) eyes growing wide with horror at the note left for them.

"…W-We… There's gotta be some kinda mistake…" stammered Sniper, trying to comprehend that the most horrible of horrible things was about to happen, "They… 'E can't… Not when… We can't just let 'im!"

"Zhere's… Nothzing ve can do…" murmured Medic, hands tensely holding the note to the point of nearly crumpling it.

Demo said nothing. He just sat there, completely sober with dismay as he took in what he just heard.

"But… He's…" Sniper mumbled, "He… He can't do it…"

"He has to," said Medic, bitterly as he put the note on the table with distaste, "It iz his job."

Sniper realized there was nothing he could do at this point, so he dejectedly took his hat off his short, black hair, and held it against his chest mournfully, in a fruitless attempt to comfort himself, like a kid and their toy. Medic slowly stood and headed off to the Infirmary, equipped with the awful news. Demoman stood as well.

"Who'll break th' news too th' oth'ars?"

Medic gave him a miserable, tired look.

"I vill, in za morning," he muttered, heading down the corridor towards his infirmary/Room.

Medic had always been a bit skeptical of the Mann Wars and the morals of them. Mind you, he wasn't exactly a very moral-driven person, but he knew that if someone did something bad, they got in trouble for it. Medic, having practically nothing to live for, and no fear of death, did not fear consequence, and thus got away with nearly everything he wanted with only minor annoyances and never a full punishment. The concept of a War like this one was a bit odd, what with Nine Classes, Units, and game-like battles fought in secret of the public eye, but, hey. It was cool, and in the end, it did not matter. Hell, he had been beginning to enjoy his life with his crazy, 'family,' for the first time in years. This, however? Lunacy. Complete madness.

The Administrator had truly gone insane if she thought _he _should be killed.

**DUN DUN DAAAA! :O Ha, I bet you all thought it was just gonna be cute filler, didn't you? Nope. The story's just gettin' started. :D Once again, sorry for the shortness, but what can you do, eh?**


	6. Saying Goodbye

_Being the littlest wasn't a fun thing. In fact, it was a very depressing thing. Little five year old Nathan would know that better than anyone, as he curled up his thin legs closer to his chest as he hid under the couch. He knew he was the least favourite out of his brothers, but the information he had overheard that day sealed it._

_Why was he so hated? At first, he loved his Ma. He thought she was the greatest person on the globe. Even if she didn't look at his pictures, defend him when his brothers started insulting him, or watched cartoons with him, she still fed him and hung around. But then Kindergarten came around… He started to see how happy the other children were when **their **Mothers showed up. And more importantly, how happy the other Mothers were to see their children. It had been strange to him. How come his Mother didn't smile and listen to him talk about his day when he got home, while the other children could talk for hours to theirs? How come he was the one who always got picked up by his oldest brother, Mat, when the other children got picked up by their Mothers? …And sometimes, their Daddies? Why did his Daddy hate him? Why? Why was he the only kid in school who didn't have a fun, happy Daddy who loved him and played baseball with him? Did… Did he do something wrong at some point? It didn't make sense… If he had done something bad enough to gain the permanent hatred of everyone, he'd remember it, right? Everyone hated him for some reason. His Mama, his brothers, his teachers, his peers…_

_Even the mailman hated him. He never gave him a single letter._

_Angry tears formed in his ice blue eyes. It didn't matter how much tried. With this many people in the house, he would always be alone._

**_Squeak_**

_Nathan wiped the tears from his eyes and looked to see where the squeak had come from. He moved his little head towards the edge of the couch, wondering who it was. He couldn't quite see from under the sofa, but he could see fancy shoes and expensive looking pants. At first, he figured it was Vincent, his second oldest brother. He had 'found' his rival's fancy shoes, and liked wearing them around the house to make fun of him. …Then he remembered Vince was at baseball practice. He crawled further under the sofa. Whoever it was, this strange person scared Scout. He trembled as the stranger wandered around the living room, muttering to himself in a language Scout couldn't understand. And he didn't like it. The child let out a little, scared whimper, and pushed himself to the wall, hoping the man would go away._

_Instead, the man seemed to hear the whimper and crouched down to make eye contact with Scout._

_He was wearing a trench coat and a dark grey fedora that covered his whole face with a shadow, giving any other person an ominous appearance under normal circumstances. Yet… He did not scare Scout that much. There was actually a sense of familiarity. The man looked to the small child with intrigue. Something was most odd about this person._

The memory stopped there, though. Everything else about the man just didn't seem to want to resurface itself for nineteen year old Scout. It was strange that he remembered it right there and then, watching some cartoon on television with Alley sleeping curled up on the couch beside him. Memories that had nothing to do with the current situations kept bouncing in and out of his head like a rubber ball. And he didn't like it. Now that he thought about, though… Who the FUCK was that guy?! He wasn't a friend of the family, since he had never been mentioned, or a relative, as he had never shown up at any family gatherings, (Which would've only been made up of his now long-dead obnoxious Grandparents who would always give him fairly dirty looks for some reason) or some type of business man there on business, since he would've knocked… He wasn't a burglar, either. Nothing had gone missing after his visit. And he hadn't hurt Nathan. In fact, Nathan had been upset to see him go. As sad as it sounded, that random stranger had been the nicest person he had met by that point.

Alley stirred a little on the couch, shivering a bit from the chill in the air. His Dad only turned the heat on for the second floor of the house because he was a cheapskate and wanted to save on money. Nathan gave her a glace, pondering to himself over whether he should bother. He however smiled softly as his decision was soon breached. The decision of: 'Screw the little tyke.' With that, Scout left for the attic, not even bothering to turn the light off for Alley.

As Scout went up the ladder and into the dust-bunny breeding grounds, he moved his mattress to the wall, putting him out of the line of view of the window. He also put his bat right next to him on the mattress and steered clear far out line of the glass.

War paranoia. He knew there were no Snipers in Boston, he knew he was safe, but one of the sayings of his brothers, Johnny, repeated itself in his head: 'Better safe than sorry.' Besides, one time, his best-buddy Pyro had slept next to window of a barn while he and the team had been on an overnight mission, and a BLU Spy had nearly knifed the poor firebug to death. Poor Pyro had nearly died that night. Ever since then, no one slept near windows.

Scout tucked himself in, and tried to drift off.

…But he couldn't. He felt like he was surrounded by BLUs. While he knew there was no way any BLUs could be in his house, his years of being on the battlefield haunted him about that feeling. He tried to shake it, but it wouldn't leave. But he soon came to a conclusion: BLUs were complete monsters, and easily Number #1 on the Top Ten of his personal shit-list. He had been stuck in their captivity for five months, and knew just how malevolent they could be. What was right behind number #1 on his Most Hated Things in Life list? :His family. And he was in their house. There was no way he'd sleep good… Not if he was in HERE. He wasn't even that tired, actually and there was nothing to do… Why not go for a late-night stroll? Scout picked himself out of his sleeping bag and grabbed his hat, aluminium bat and coat.

Quietly, Scout opened an attic window and stealthily slipped out into the chilly, night air. Scout took a peek towards the dew-covered yard before him. It was a long fall. About sixteen feet. Smirking and without thinking, Scout hopped down feet-first onto the cold terrain, barely feeling anything. Any ordinary person would've broken an ankle at least, but being in the RED and BLU Wars did odd things to people. It made them stronger and more resistant than the average person. No one knew how, but somehow after making it through the training for their Class, they'd gotten better senses, better reflexes, and get more skilled at certain things depending on their Class, like Scout's running for example. Scout was always a great runner, but after joining RED, he had gotten from being very quick to being literally as fast as a jackrabbit somehow, which was an inhuman speed. Along with that, he was more resistant to falling, and even heard some of the older Scouts had figured out how to jump on AIR, like it was a platform or something. With this and so many other gifts in comparison to the average person, he couldn't help but grin from the knowledge that a fall like that didn't hurt anymore.

The Scout stood, shoved his hands into his pockets, and decided to take a look around his old city to see if anything had changed. He lifted his aluminum bat with a cruel sneer. He was ready for some fun, should it ever come.

(-)

Spy crawled into the house with ease, silently wandering the floors whilst looking for the right door with the sleeping four year old girl in his arms. Little Alley was not his problem right now. His problem was _them. _But before he took care of that complication, though, he had to see _Her_. Not hear from her from letters, not listen to her beautiful voice on the phone, not longingly gaze at her as a photograph, no, to look at his dearest loved one for at least one last time in person. First, before he could spend time with his lover however, he had to put this child to bed. After a short walk, he found a white door with a messy (But still talented for an artist of four years of age) crayon sketch of a cat on it. That was obviously little Alley's room, which would take care of the sleeping cargo he was currently carrying. He opened the door and walked into the room.

It was plain. Very plain. There was a small bed with some stuffed toys on it and various crayon drawings taped to the white walls. He took note that Alley was a fairly artistic little girl, and very talented for someone of her age group. Perhaps she wouldn't go through with the 'Family Business,' like he and Nathan had.

…Then again, since Nathan's interests had initially only been on baseball, they had thought that he would be on the minor leagues, or construction, or something… And they couldn't have been more wrong. The boy was an acrobat of death, and had become as bloodthirsty of a killer Spy was. Maybe even more so. He saw how his ice-shaded eyes would light up at the opportunity of spilling blood. Still, there was hope for Alley. Perhaps she would do something with her life that had nothing to do with murder. He tucked her in under her light green blankets, stroked her forehead briefly, and went to leave. Little did he know that Alley had some level of consciousness.

"Who… Who're you, Mist'uh?" asked Alley, sleepily. Spy looked over, surprised at the sight of the semi-conscious child. Her eyes were half open and clouded with tiredness. However, he knew they would not close until she had gotten her answer. He looked around his skull for a good definition for himself, which proved to be quite difficult. He could not say who he truly was, that would cause enormous confusion. He came up with a decent one though, and hoped it would work.

"…A friend," he said at last, "I am a friend, mon petite ami."

Her mood visibly brightened. A small smile appeared. "Are ya gonna play wit' me tomorrow, then?"

Spy guiltily looked down to his shoes, trying to think of an explanation as to why and how he would not be able to play with the girl the next day. It was a difficult task, disappointing a child. Hard even for one such as himself. It was funny how murdering dozens of people on the battlefield was easy for him, but telling the truth to a child was hard. Telling a half-truth, perhaps, was the best way to go about it.

"Alley… I am not zhat type of friend. I cannot play games with you, or even seem like I am there… But I will look out for you from afar, even if you do not realize it. Zhat iz zee type of friend I am."

"Like an angel?"

Goddamn, this was an uncomfortable situation. "…Sort of, I suppose."

"Hmm…" Alley pondered it over for little, then smiled and snuggled under her bed-sheets, hugging her stuffed bunny, "You sure talk funny for an angel, Mist'uh."

**"It iz called a French accent," **snapped Spy, with a bit of impatience. He calmed down very quickly, though, "...Listen Alley… You must promise you will not tell anyone about me. Not your teachers, your fellow classmates, or your Fatheir."

"Can I tell Mama?"

"…I suppose. But only when no one else is around. Now, I must go," Spy turned to leave, but gazed one last sad stare to the child on the bed, "Take care… Ma fille."

"…Bye…" said Alley quietly as the door creaked shut.

Spy quietly walked down the halls once again, looking for the correct door, upon finding it, however, he only smiled sadly and opened the door.

And there she was, reading a book. She looked so sick, it broke his heart. The former raven-haired, now grey streaked, beauty looked up towards him and gave a happy sigh.

"Oh, it's you…" she said, "Hiya, 'Chill…"

Spy held up his hand as a sign to say hello, and then hopped onto the bed next to her, "…I thought I made it clear zhat I 'ate zhat nickname," he said with mild distaste, but with a teasing look in his blue eyes.

She giggled softly, "Like I care. You'll always be 'Chill' to me, Achille."

Spy rolled his eyes playfully, but then saddened a little. "'Ow do you feel, Blair?"

"Like I'm dying," smiled Blair sadly, putting her book down, "…Chill… I wish it could've been late'uh… I wish it could've happened when Alley was outta the house at least." Tears began forming in her dark eyes, "I don't wanna die yet, Achille…"

Spy held her hand. "None of us want you to die, mon Cherie. I cannot zhink of one person who would."

"…Nathan does…" she muttered, a couple tears dripping down her face.

"Non, non, Nathan just does not know 'ow to react," assured Spy.

"I dunno, Chill… He's really mad at us. Mad at me… And I can't blame him," her voice cracked as the tears dropped onto her bedspread.

"The fault is not yours, or Clark's, or 'is siblings, or 'imself. The fault is mine," stated Spy, squeezing Blair's hand, "I should've been 'ere for 'im."

"Chill, you was, and still is in, a shady Organization dat's unknown by da law and kills any deserters mercilessly. By staying, ya would've been in danger. And dere was no way Clark and I could've divorced, not when we had seven kids already, for Christ's sake."

"True…"

"Can we's change da subject, Chill? I'm kinda dying. I'd like to see a bit of cheer before I kick da bucket," she said. She then poked Spy on the nose, "'Specially from you, Chill. And can ya take off your mask? Ya look nicer without it."

Spy let out a small chuckle, "Fine," he said, removing the crimson fabric from his head, revealing a lean face with a few faded scars and short, vaguely spikey brown hair. Under normal circumstances, he would never, EVER remove his mask. Blair, however, was a special case. He did not feel the need for his mask while in her presence. He did not feel judged, or the need to be detached. He felt warm in her presence. Taking off his mask was more comforting to him than leaving it on. "What do you wish to talk about?"

"Hmm…" pondered Blair, "What do ya think of your dearest little daughter?"

"Alley?" asked Achille, "She seems very sweet. She is a talented drawer for one so small."

"I know, it's all she does," chirped Blair, but then sounded both depressed and happy at the same time as she continued, "She doesn't have any friends, and you know how Clark is about things he's uncertain about…"

"Indeed… " mused Achille, "I 'ope she does not follow in my footsteps like 'er brother did."

"Speakin' a which, how's Nathan?"

"Honestly, he is much... MUCH stronger zhan 'e looks. He works best on a team, zhough."

"Makes sense," mused Blair, "He was always a bit insecure when he was alone..."

"Oui. And he keeps getting more skilled each day."

"I'm sure he picked dat up frum someone…"

"Well, genetics work in funny ways. …Heh. I knew it was im from when I first saw 'im," Achille gave a smile, "Blair… The boy looks just like you."

"Funny, I'd say he looks just like you," grinned Blair, "…Hey… Does he know about-?"

"No, he is still ignorant."

"Huh. Ain't you a coward."

"'Coward'!?" repeated Achille in shock, "What on Earth do you mean?!"

Blair laughed. "Well… Ya don't have the guts to tell him."

"Why don't you, zhen, since you want 'im to know so badly?" Demanded Achille, crossing his arms.

"It's best you do it. You're the one who didn't want him to know all dese years, aft'uh all."

"You are just saying zhat because you are too lazy," he frowned.

"Lazy, really? I raised EIGHT BOYS, bucko. EIGHT. Let's see you do that."

Neither of them knew how long they sat there, chattering away about nonsense, making stupid jokes and laughing like they were teenagers again. They got into an argument about which flavour of pudding they liked better, they discussed the scientific process of beating people over the head with bibles, and exchanged stories, both funny and tragic, to each other with glee. But, in the end, Spy realized he had to leave his lover behind… Probably forever.

"Ma belle pêche … I must go, now…" said Achille, sadly. His voice was clearly cracking. Blair looked up and held his face.

"Hey, hey… It ain't the end. I'll wait for ya on da other side, Ok? Don't kill ya self aft'ah I die, cause dat's stupid, but when you die… We'll be together… Kay? You gotta promise me one thing, though."

"What's that?"

"…Take care of Nathan fah me, would ya? Alley, too."

Achille processed the request, then slowly nodded and leaned over for a kiss. Blair obliged and they passionately exchanged it. He wished it didn't have to end, but it did. Afterwards, Achille slowly went over to the window, opened it, hopped onto the window sill and looked down, letting a single tear drip down his cheek. He took his balaclava and slipped it over his head.

"Goodbye, Blair…" murmured Spy, "I'll never forget you... I do not zhink I could."

"Goodbye… Achille," waved Blair, "I love ya."

With those final words, The Spy slipped away into the night.

**A/N: Poor Spy… It was hard writing that. Yeah, this was more Spy's chapter than Scout's chapter. :[**

**I hope you all are enjoying the story that 99.9% of the site won't read out of disinterest! :P**

**See next chapter! ...Or not... I dunno, since, like, almost no one reads this except twelve people... But to you awesome twelve, thank you for the contiued support! :D**


	7. Damning Solitude

**A/N: Oh, it's **_**you**_**. How have you been? I've been**_** REALLY**_** busy being happy. You know… After you REVIEWED MY STORY.**

**Random TF2 disliker: YOU DID WHAT?!**

***Snaps RTF2D's neck*Ok, look, we've all said a lot of things that Snowsky, DeltaG, DMS41319 and xXReviewManXx are going to treasure, but I think we all can put our differences behind us. For Fanfiction. You cool dudes.**

**:) Portal references aside, thanks, you mentioned guys and/or girls, for the continued support!**

**I shall be upset about the lack of popularity no more! :) Onward to Chapter 7!**

**(**_**Aperture Science's Over-dramatic leader speech and Portal references 36% complete. If you are diagnosed with intolerance to Over-dramatic leader speeches, or Portal references, then you may go ahead and kiss-INFORMATION REDACTED. The author does not own the video game franchise commonly known as Team Fortress 2. The author will now spare you of their sudden, uplifting emotional surge and allow you to continue reading the Fanfiction.**_**)**

Everyone had their inner demons. Depression, anorexia, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, uneven emotions, ect. Even the most perfect of people had a least one of these types of problems every once and a while. Scout, being a far, FAR cry to a perfect person, had quite a bundle of them. The main one, the one he was joyfully taking part of at the moment, was violence.

He kicked the gangster in the face, turned on his heel and whacked the one that had predictably tried to charge him with his bat. The old metal now had another bloodstain. Another one screamed and tried to punch him, but he grabbed the fist – And twisted it. The newest gangster shrieked in the pain of their now broken wrist, while Scout remained passive and forced him to face-plant on the ground. Scout planted his foot on the lad's back and took a look at the six defeated teenagers.

They had surrounded him and had tried to steal from him. His response was kicking their faces in. Now here he was, standing over them with a relaxed smirk. Fighting always made him feel good. Even when the opponents sucked.

"Ya feel dat?" asked Scout, wedging his foot into the weakest gangster's shoulder blade, and addressing the question to all of the now immobile gangsters, "Dat, is whut 'appens when ya mess wit' me. Take it as a learnin' experience, or call f'ah vengeance, I don' care, but dink twice 'for ya tango wit' someone as awesome as I am. It's a good idea f'ah ya, since, well… YOU GUYS KINDA SUCK."

The gangsters groaned in pain and anger.

"Ga'bye, dum'asses," said Scout, tipping his cap, "Hopefully, if we's ev'ah meet again, you won't suck as much." With that, he took his leave, smiling ear to ear and whistling, _'Bye-Bye, Miss American Pie.'_

As demented as it sounded, he had really needed that fight. He needed some way to get his anger out. The best way for him to deal with his anger was to hurt someone. Anyone, it didn't matter who. He wouldn't complain if they were strong or weak. Hell, at the moment, he felt like fighting the infamous, legendary CEO, Saxton Hale single-handedly. …Not like he could without dying any time soon. He was nothing in comparison to Saxton, whose skin was rumoured to be so thick that bullets barely did anything, but he still wouldn't mind the challenge. With this confidence, Scout walked off to the main street, feeling awesomer than ever.

Then, after five minutes of walking down the main street, got hit with a dreadful surprise.

The city life had used to be an easy reality for Scout. He grew up in a City. He knew how to steal. He knew how to trick people into thinking he was an innocent bystander. He still remembered how to pick locks to loot houses and stores from his gang years. But despite it all, he absolutely, positively, HATED IT all of a sudden!

City life had abruptly gone from being an easy place to thrive, to being a reality that was completely disgusting to him. So many weak people walking by, of both body and mind. All of them were so arrogant and caught up in their own lives, looking to him like he was naught more than dirt, while he was much more powerful than they were. The parents kept feeding their children crap about how it's 'wrong to hit,' and skinny, pathetic beggars kept begging for food instead of manning up and stealing the shit themselves. He wanted to puke. Weakness suddenly deeply appalled him. He was so used to the weak being killed off in the first twenty minutes of a battle by the opposing team, whereas here, the weak seemed to be in command. They called the police whenever something went wrong. But despite all these revolting problems, a giant one towered over them all:

Here, even at night, he was deeply overwhelmed. Noise was ever abundant and hurt his ears, everything down to the quiet flicker of a lighter somehow made itself known. Not only that, everywhere he turned, the lights would blind him and leave him deeply disoriented, leaving people staring at him like he was a freak. Perhaps having heightened senses was not the best thing to possess in a city area. Also, just to add to his pain, he felt very different and extremely uncomfortable around 'normal' people now, which itself sort of unnerved him. He talked all the time to other REDs back home, but why did he suddenly feel like he was a different species here, amongst the 'normal?' It was like being a leopard in a sea of house cats. What was wrong with him? Why wasn't he hitting on every pretty, single girl he saw, or insulting every other person he got the chance to? There, a fat lady. Why wasn't he calling her Moby Dick? There, a 'tough-guy'. Why wasn't he stealing his stuff? Look, a pretty lady without a date. Why wasn't he making a playboy comment about her figure to woo her? He held his head, both out of frustration and pain. His head hurt. The lights, the sounds, the somewhat familiar faces, everything hurt him. And the pain only magnified the longer he stayed. He pleaded in his head for everyone to shut up for at least two seconds, but they wouldn't. His skull felt like it was going to explode. Scout, the motor-mouth, the 'social one,' the most merciless fighter ever, couldn't bring himself to handle the noise levels. Scout could handle an army of BLUs no problem, but the noise levels of Boston's main streets were completely destroying him. He needed out. He needed quiet. He pathetically stumbled into and alleyway, getting as far distance between him and the noise as possible.

Oh, the pain. The fucking pain…

He tripped and nearly face planted into a puddle, clenching his temples with his bandaged fists as he tried to fight off his migraine. The darkness and slight quietude had actually proved to be surprisingly effective, and soothed it a little. Soon he found he could at least bring himself to stand, but there was still a twinge of pain worming around in there. He sighed and slumped against the wall. That midnight stroll was far more painful than it should've been. Removing his cap and running a hand through his hair, he reflected on his trip so far:

His Ma was dying, and he couldn't bring himself to care.

His Dad was still a bastard.

He now had a little sister whom he didn't know what to think of.

Spy was here, too, but due to his 'mission' he could not talk, nor be with him during this emotionally conflicting time.

City life was now excruciatingly painful.

...

He hadn't eaten anything all day.

_Way ta bum ya'self out, Scout, _he mentally scowled. There was a reason Scout couldn't be alone for too long. Without people, or a fight/mission to keep himself occupied, his brain would try to distract itself by thinking. And having a life like his, with misery, injuries and death ever abundant, thinking of past events thoroughly depressed him. He hated depression. But upon thinking, he decided to ignore his childhood and instead try to focus on his life at the base instead. He began trying to unfold the playful memories he had with his teammates.

He tried to focus on that time when they had to defend some cargo on a train while the BLUs tried to raid it, and teaming up with only Sniper for the first time and learning some of the marksman's philosophy.

He tried to focus on the crisp, autumn day where he had to explain to Pyro what hide and seek was and spending the whole day playing with the firebug and completely forgetting about the battle.

His first M.H.W.D with Demoman, that quest was a blast, almost worth the hangover he got afterwards. (M.H.W.D: Monster Hunt While Drunk.)

The time that he and Heavy got trapped in an alternate timeline. That was badass.

All those times where he got into fist-fights with Soldier over trivial things, usually over things Scout caused on purpose because he wanted a good fight.

That time after a battle where he talked to the Engineer about his problems and gaining a good father figure in the Texan in the process.

That time he and Spy, unintentionally at the same time, had snuck into a movie theater and wound up making fun of the movie together, gaining a bit of a secret partnership and a tradition that whenever they entered a town with a theater, to sneak in and watch whatever was playing together.

The time where he had to take care of Medic's doves and nearly killed the poor things out of ignorance and annoyance.

Such beautiful memories.

All overshadowed by his fucking childhood memories that his subconscious refused to forget.

Overshadowed by getting locked in the attic for the first five times and screaming for someone to hear him in his misery.

Overshadowed by getting beaten up at school. Overshadowed by beating up other people at school.

Overshadowed by getting hit by his Father for spilling paint in the garage.

Overshadowed by killing someone for the first time.

Overshadowed by the years he spent hiding.

Overshadowed by Ritchie's absence.

Overshadowed by pain in general.

He hated being alone. He needed his teammates. He needed someone from his team. Anyone, it didn't matter who it was out of the eight of them. Pyro, Engie, Demo, Heavy, Spy, Medic, Sniper, Soldier… Or… Or Miss Pauling… He didn't care. Someone out of those people would do just fine. But with no phone in sight, he decided to test a temporary replacement. He reached into his pocket and took out a photograph.

He looked towards him and his teammates at the base in Coldfront, who all looked right back, smiling warmly by a pleasant fire. Everyone was looking at the camera… Except Pyro, who was sitting on the floor, fixated on the warm flames. Spy was looking typically serious, with a cigarette in between his teeth and his eyes sharply looking toward the camera, but if Scout looked closely he could see the slightest of smiles formed on the Frenchman's lips. Heavy's smile was very much forced, as he obviously wanted the photo out of the way so he could enjoy the 'Sandvich' in his giant hand. Medic was looking up from some novel with a small hint of joy in his dark eyes. Sniper and Engineer both held beers, Engie looking friendly as always and Sniper looked a bit tipsy, with a drunken smile that made Scout chuckle a little. Demoman was looking relaxed, shuffling a deck of cards and Soldier was standing up straight and doing a military salute. Scout himself was sitting on the floor in the photo next to Pyro with his lucky baseball bat giant grin on his face, and standing on the other side was dear Miss Pauling. She looked beautiful, as always, with her inky hair tied back and cat-eye glasses. He could've just stared at Miss Pauling forever. He wasn't sure what it was about her. He'd make comments about attractive women all the time, but Miss Pauling was special. He couldn't put his finger on it, but Miss Pauling was just perfect in every way to him somehow. She was smart, witty, fairly serious, but strong willed. She could fire guns, kick ass and had a beautiful voice to top it all. He had heard her sing in the shower during that one week she was trapped with them during a snowstorm, and he knew how perfectly she could those notes. Just staring at her photo made him forget all about his problems…

Until he heard his stomach growl at him.

He slapped himself on the forehead. He hadn't eaten anything all day. Maybe eating something would distract him from his misery.

He tucked the precious photograph into his pocket and wandered off to find something to eat. He did not take the street, however. He took the rooftops to both test his abilities and escape the noise. He was just badass like that. …Or stupid, judging by what badass is and what stupid is for you. He crawled up a fire escape and hopped onto the top of a skyscraper. Using his signature speed and heightened abilities, he jumped to the other side easily.

Jumping precariously across rooftops proved to be a most enjoyable activity. He felt like Spiderman, and it was even awesomer than it sounded. Supernatural. Godly. Nothing could stop him. He laughed triumphantly as he bolted to the other side of yet another building.

"FUCK YEAH!" He shouted, jumping all over the place. All he needed was some gunfire and some people to kill, and this would be perfect. He jumped over some more alleyways and slipped onto a window ledge. Scout crawled to the top of a skyscraper using his advanced psychical strength, and looked over the city he used to call home. He had the view of a god. From a distance, the city didn't look that bad, actually. If it hadn't had given him a hell of a headache, he'd go right back down there, dancing and singing. But he knew better. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, interesting little contraption: A silver harmonica. A decent sized one, one of obvious value due to its fine engravings and ever apparent care that went into its beautiful craftsmanship. He took the small instrument to his lips, took a deep breath, and started playing it.

_Nathan sat next to the fifteen year old next to him, thoroughly engrossed in the beautiful sounds coming from the instrument the other boy was playing. The instrument in question was a harmonica, masterfully woven and designed to perfection. The noises emitted from it wonderfully spun around in the air, filling the air with music that was a happy and playful beat, dripping with mischievousness and coolness. The tune made him feel like slipping around the alleyways and stealing stuff, like a cool, funny burglar. Such an astounding tune. Like all good things, however, it came to an end. The music stopped and the boy sitting next to him looked towards him with a merry look in his warm, brown eyes._

"_Da song's called Law of da Backstreet," he smirked, brushing some of his curly blond hair away and putting the harmonica in its case, "I learned it frum dis cowboy guy in New York. Anywho, I thought this'd be a good souvenir for ya."_

"_Souvenir?" asked Nathan, puzzled, "Rich, you're givin' it ta me? Whut can I do's wit' a harmonica?"_

"_Learn ta play it," suggested the blond teenager, "Play it whenever you're upset. It sure helps me, so I dink it'll help you."_

_Nathan gingerly took it from Ritchie's scarred fingers and held it in his own calloused ones. Smooth, stainless with a potential to play grand tunes. A lovely gift. Almost makes for-_

"_Congrats on turnin' twelve two weeks ago, by da way. Wish I could've been dere," smiled Ritchie. Nathan gaze darted to Ritchie's, awestruck and completely shocked._

"_Ya remembered my birthday?" he asked, startled._

"_A 'course I did!" laughed Ritchie, "I woulda come sooner, but work got in my way. I had ta do sumthin' for ya, right? So, I'm givin' ya my harmonica. Take good care of it, Ok?"_

"_Y-Yeah! Of course I will!" cried Nathan ecstatically, shaking his head up and down furiously, "Thanks, Ritchie!"_

"_No prob!"_

_Nathan smiled. Best late birthday present, EVER. Before Ritchie had to leave again, though, he wanted to learn how to play that song. "Hey… Can you teach me dat song ya just played, Ritchie?"_

"_Sure, why not?" grinned the teen, "Kay, ya take it like dis…"_

Scout was horrified to feel the salty streams run down his cheeks, stopped playing, and quickly brushed the tears away, doing his best to deny the existence of his emotions. _Stop cryin', _he growled in his mind, _YOU'RE. WAY. BETT'UH. DAN. DAT._ Scout quickly smacked himself across the face, fuming at his weakness. _Why is ya crying, anyhow? Ritchie's gone. Long gone. Pushin' up daises. Only good as worm food now. You accepted this five years ago, so why are you cryin' ov'uh him NOW? _Scout didn't want to keep crying out of fear of being seen as weak, but regardless to what he tried, the tears spilled down anyways._ You wanna keep cryin? Ok, dat's fine. Be a baby. But why ov'uh Ritchie who died around four years ago? Why not ov'uh you're Ma? She's dying right now. Cry fah her, fah God's sake._

_**Wait... No, she don't deserve tears my tears... She deserves to die, **_hissed a more sinister, cruel voice on the other half of his mind, _**She deserves exactly what she gave me. NOTHIN'. Equivalent exchange, af'tah all.**_

_But wait... No one deserves ta die frum an ILLNESS of all things! Bullets, sure. But not an illness! Not like dat. It's too slow and cruel._

_**But den again, dat's whut she deserves. A slow, cruel death.**_

_No, ya sick fuck! Da BLUs that held ya captive fah dose seven months woulda deserved dat! Remember da Spies ya slaughtered? They woulda deserved dat, and if wanna stretch, maybe Pops does fah hittin' ya and yellin' at ya all da time. But not your Ma. She did nothin'._

_**Da guys who don't do their job in da Wars get killed by der laziness, don't dey? Why wouldn't dose rules apply ta Mom? Lookit 'ow she raised me! Throughout the whole time I stayed with her, all dose times I tried tellin' her 'ow sad I was, 'ow broken I was, 'OW I WANTED TA KILL YA'SELF, she didn't bat a freaking eye my way! I sobbed in the corner, I got beaten, broken, bashed, bruised and abused… And what did she do? NOTHIN'! NOT ONE. FUCKING. THING. During the most fragile point of my life, no less!**_

_Dat ain't true! You didn't tell her how upset you were! Besides, she hugged you!_

_**ONCE! AND DEN NEVER AGAIN! BESIDES, SHE SHOULDA REALIZED HOW SAD I WAS! EVERYONE KNEW I COULDN'T TALK UNTIL I'S WAS LIKE, TEN, AND IT WAS HER JOB AS A MA TA NOTICE IF I FELT OR DIDN'T FELT SUICIDAL!**_

_She had eight boys to raise! She didn't have enough time fah ya!_

_**Well, she certainly had more than enough time fah da oth'uh seven boys as opposed ta you, didn't she? Let's also put a cherry on top 'a da shit-sundae, shall we? She ignored ya, and your pleas ta play baseball or any other extra lessons, and instead purchased YOUR BROTH'AHS extra lessons! Do Lukas's guitar lessons ring a bell? How about Matthew and Reese's football lessons? Oh, Johnny's PIANO lessons? One of the most EXPENSIVE instruments one can play? What about Seth's painting classes? Those cost a pretty penny. Even Ritchie isn't innocent on dis one. He went ACTING once! ACTING! Oh, and here's a kicker: VINCE'S BASEBALL PRACTICE?! THE SPORT **__**YOU **__**WANTED TO PLAY SO BADLY, AND NEVER GOT THE CHANCE TO?! THAT'S NOT A MATTER OF HAVING TOO MANY BOYS TO RAISE. THAT'S FUCKING FAVOURITISM!**_

_Pops was the one who paid for those lessons! He's ta blame fah dat, not your Ma!_

_**She's at just as guitly as he is! Why didn't she stand up for ya at any point? Why didn't she, at any point, tell Clark he was doing something wrong? Did she honestly expect you, as a timid little kid, to stand against CLARK, who is almost six feet tall, tough as nails, and even more terrifyin' dan da Doc when he's craving to see intestines?**_

_She… She must've been scared of him too._

_**Den why not divorce? It's easy. If she filed one, Clark wouldn't have been able to anything about it.**_

_You's is being so fucking selfish. What about your brothers' sake?_

_**Ha! They have their own class of awful! They didn't help me, IN ANY WAY, dey just beat me up! Another cherry, dere're just another example of favouritism! Dey favoured eachother. Ta them, you's was just a little, annoyin' pipsqueak. Dey hated ya, plain and simple!**_

_YOUR MA. HAD SEVEN OTH'UH SONS-_

_**Who all seemed to be on her good side. And got privileged with expensive lessons while ya had nothin'.**_

_-WHO ALL LUVED DERE MOM AND DAD-_

_**Both of which never seemed capable of sharing that love with you.**_

_-Oh... Don't you get it?! A DIVORCE WOULD'VE DESTROYED 'EM, SCOUT!_

**OH REALLY? COULDN'T HAVE DESTROYED 'EM LESS DAN DEM BEING TA'GETHAH DESTROYED YOU, NATHAN!**

**_"SHUUUUUUT, UP!" _**Screamed the Scout at the top of his lungs, holding his head in pain.

He panted in heaves, his cold sweat and tears ran freely off his face, and his hands trembled as he moved them to cradle his face. No amount of BONK! he had ever drank made his heart beat against his ribcage as hard as it currently did. He shivered in pain, fear, confusion, anger and many, many more awful sensations. All of these awful feelings and more twisted and wormed through his body. He didn't know what he supposed to do about this situation. He was lost in every sense, and there was nothing he could do about the sheer confusion alone, let alone the thousands of other emotions swirling around in his head.

He was trembling in fear of himself, and who he was.

He curled up to hug his knees, eyes squeezed shut as his choking sobs wracked his skinny, acrobatic frame. He honestly how no clue about who he was anymore. He felt more messed up than he ever had in a very, very long time.

_"W...What... What am I...?"_ he tragically managed to whisper past his weeping, addressing the question into the surrounding darkness. The darkness provided no answer. Just silence to the bawling nineteen year old. There was no one there to hear him scream of his existence. No one to hold him as the bitter winds stung his back like icy needles. No one was present. Just like how it was from before. Just like how it was from when he was a child.

As he cried himself to sleep, he remembered that it was reasons such as this why he hated being alone so badly.

And the tears, the scars, and the tattoo on his back were only sick reminders of them.

**A/N: Aaaannnnnd now it's Scout's turn to have people crying. G'job, Scout. **** I was upset by this point, for I was having a crappy day at school, so getting it all on this chapter sort of helped, oddly enough.**

**Anyone who knows about Baccano! and it's soundtrack, knows that Backstreet Law is the theme of Isaac and Miria. ^-^ It's a cool song. Song number #7 on the soundtrack, I believe.**

**Sorry for no Alley scenes. :(**

**Everyone: "YOU SUCK! BRING BACK THE LITTLE KID CHARACTER!" D:**

**Anywho, I'm having a good time writing this and depressing every few people who read it. :D I'm happy to have such nice feedback from all of you. ^-^ It makes me feel all warm, happy and fuzzy inside. Anyways, see you next time! C:**


	8. The Ma has a few Secrets

**A/N: Wow… No reviews? Seriously? XD Was Chapter Seven really that bad? You can always just tell me when something is poorly written! I won't get offended, pinkie-swear. :3 Oh well, back to the story.**

**I don't really have much to say for this chapter. Have fun (and I say fun very, VERY loosely) with Clark and Scout's sheer hatred for each other, forced family drama, and Ally's cuteness, I guess. :D**

**BTW… Um… I'm not sure if I'm allowed to do this, but I just realized I don't like the idea of Scout being a gangster before joining RED. I'm still new to writing Fanfiction, so would it be OK if I edited out the information and re-write it in a way I want to? I want to do this, because I don't think there's much I can do with the old gang, and so much more I could do if Scout ran away and immediately joined RED, at the age of fourteen as opposed to fifteen, as I could get more character development out of him, and in the process, give him and the team a bigger connection and more epic-ness to this other story I plan on writing. Please answer in a review or a private message. If it is that bad of I move, I'll go with what I've got.**

**Anyways, I do not own TF2. Herp-de-derp.**

To say that Clark Hawthorne was a bit upset with Nathan Hawthorne at the moment was not true. No, no, at the moment, he was absolutely INFURIATED with the boy. He snarled as he tore through the house in an a futile attempt to find the second-youngest child, only for the rage to increase as yet another effort became in vain.

He had never liked Nathan. He knew right from the beginning that the boy was from a different father, regardless to how Blair insisted otherwise. Clark was a firm parental figure to say the least, but he did honestly care about his wife and his own children. Neither Nathan or Ally were his children. Both were from the same man he was certain his wife had been seeing. Clark himself was not completely innocent when it came to his relationship with Blair, he had seen a few women here and there, so he let it slide. But if Blair expected him to treat Nathan and Ally like they were his own, she had another thing coming. However, the fact Nathan had vanished, AGAIN, made him feel like he was about to explode with rage.

Nathan was a despicable kid. Whenever that child got the slightest bit upset with something, he hid from it like a coward. He turned his back on all negative things. He only saw the things he liked, only did the things he liked, not once thinking through the consequences his actions might cause. That imp was not half the man he believed himself to be. He'd never be strong. Clark had seen enough from the pathetic, shivering whelp of a child he'd had the displeasure of raising to know, and the fact that Nathan thought becoming a MERCENARY would gain him respect only added to his not-so-favouring opinion on him. The boy was dead to him, and that was all there was to the story. With an angry scowl, Clark trudged down the stairs to the base level of the house, angrily searching for his least favourite child. Instead, he found the second least-favourite: Ally, the littlest.

She was sitting on the couch with her stuffed bunny while watching television, long hair undone from its previous ponytail so it hung in a messy, chocolate coloured cascade off her back. She was clothed in a pale green dress, and giggling at the funny characters on the screen. A long buried, gentler side to him would have laughed with her, but something was wrong about this picture.

"Shouldn't you be at school?" he asked in typical coldness. The instant she heard her father's callous voice, she darted her head towards him, shuddered, and squeezed her bunny closer to her as she trembled in fear.

"It's Friday," she whispered in intimidation, "I only got school on T-Tuesdays an' T'ursdays…"

Oh yes, that's right. Ally was still in Jr. Kindergarten. Only for two days a week, she'd be out of his hair. The rest of the week, she'd coop herself up in the house and sketch, or do whatever it was that the little girl did in her spare time.

Clark nodded in acknowledgment. "Oh, yes. That's right… Where's your brother?"

"I dunno…" mumbled Ally, fidgeting with her fingers, "I fell asleep watchin' cartoons with him… When I woke up, he wasn't here no mores."

Clark rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. That only left one option: Nathan had run off again.

"Bastard," he growled. Ally pushed herself as hard as she could against the couch, making herself as small as possible. Clark was about to call the police, when he heard a knock on the door. He went towards it, opened it… And saw Nathan standing there, looking a bit grimy with his old, bloody bat hanging from his shoulder.

"Hey," he said, casually. Clark gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Without warning, he punched the boy, hard in the cheek with his ring-hand in anger. While surprised that Nathan did not fall or stumble backwards from the blow, and instead only put one foot behind him to keep him from losing his balance, Nathan had disobeyed him, and punishments had to dished out.

"**Where the hell were you?" **he snarled.

Nathan, for quite a while, said nothing. After a while of just looking down at the pavement, visor of his ball-cap shielding his eyes, he just absently rubbed the bruise forming on his cheek as opposed to answering the question. This angered Clark.

"Well?" he demanded, harshly. At this, Nathan spat a bit of blood onto the pavement and store daggers at his father. It was a look of pure, untainted _hatred_. His eyes radiated with loathing, and his firmly clenched hands shook with the craving of violence. However, despite how enraged he was obviously feeling, he kept his voice even, and eerily calm.

"I got bored," he stiffly stated, doing his best to refrain from killing Clark, "So, I went out for sum air."

"At MIDNIGHT?"questioned Clark in frustration, "Without leaving so much as a note?!"

"Basically, yeah," replied the old teenager, stiffly walking past Clark into the house, "Don't worry though, I ain't goin' ta the main streets again."

"The _MAIN STREETS?_" repeated Clark in both amazement and anger.

Scout looked towards Clark with a hateful expression. "Yeh. Did I fuckin' stutter, _Pops_?"

That did it. Clark growled. No one in this house could give him that level of disrespect and get away with it. Clark grabbed Scout by the back of his head, turning him to face him. His green eyes were filled to the brim with dullness and fear-inflicting death, secretly filling Scout soul with dread. He tightened his already tight grip on the young mercenary's head.

"THIS. IS MY HOUSE,"snarled Clark, breathing close to Scout's face, "YOU ARE GOING TO FOLLOW MY RULES, AND DO THINGS BY _MY_ TERMS. I DON'T CARE HOW YOU DO THINGS WITH YOUR 'BUDDIES' BACK AT YOUR GODDAMN WAR-ZONE, BUT I CAN SURE AS HELL PROMISE YOU THAT IT'S NOT GONNA FLY HERE. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR, NATHAN?"

Scout did nothing. He just turned his head away and shut his eyes. Clark scoffed.

"Still a coward," he harshly stated, "Typical. All you ever do is run and hide. I'd say the whole reason you joined those ridiculous 'Mann Wars' was just to hide behind their backs, as well. I'd also bet that you've never even experienced REAL pain before."

Scout's eyes instantly opened and turned to his father with initial shock, which immediately turned into unfathomable rage.

"_REAL pain?"_ he repeated in ire and fury, eyes narrowing as his malice grew. REAL pain. Coming from the man whose closest experience to the subject was spraining his knee while playing fucking **Football**. THAT. DID IT. Scout had been held captive by the Builder's League United for two months. He had almost died more times than he could count. He had fought armies of BLUs, an evil Australian Santa Claus, the cursed lost eye of his teammate, a corrupted mage, dozens of monsters and had even gotten thrown into an alternate dimension He had been shot, slashed, cursed, poisoned, burned, tortured, half-drowned and struggled for his life on a daily basis. He knew more about pain than someone his age should have. Anger ten times hotter than the burning sun boiled in his chest, he leaned over to his father's face with a flaming, blue hell of rage brewing in his ice shaded eyes. All the things he and his team fought for, and he had the gall to INSULT them.

"_**FUCK YOU."**_

(-)

Clark threw Nathan into the basement with force to rival that of an elephant's.

"_And STAY down there,__**"**_he hissed.

"**GLADLY!"** screeched Scout back upwards, "**THIS PLACE'S A HELL OF AH'LOT BETT'UH DAN STARIN' AT YOUR ASS-UGLY FACE ALL DAY, YA DICK LICKING PIECE OF SHIT!"**

Clark slammed the door so hard, it was a miracle the door hinges didn't break. Scout let out a wordless scream of rage and punched one of the walls of the basement so hard it cracked. His knuckles bled, but he didn't care. He was PISSED. He was wondering why he hadn't kicked Clark's ass, grabbed his belongings and took the first underground express back to Dustbowl right after Clark had punched him. He would've deserved it. No, he would've deserved DEATH. Hell, he still did! Why not go kill him and make it look like he had an accident, or committed suicide? His Ma would stop taking her medicine that kept delaying her imminent demise, and once they were both dead, he could leave forever. How could he go wrong with that?

But no, no, he couldn't do that. He had to keep staying in this hell until his Ma died. When she did die, he had to go to her funeral, and once that was all done, he could leave, and never look back. The base sounded like paradise to him. He lay his head against the beige couch against the basement wall and sighed through his nose. Well, he was going to be in here for a while. May as well get to having fun.

He hopped off the couch and opened the old, locker-like wooden cupboard on the wall. He was looking for something in particular; Chalk. Lots of chalk. Time to get in touch with his_ artistic _side. He gave a sinister chuckle as he began his blind search. It was hard to see what was in there, as it was pitch black in the basement. Even with his above average eye-sight, it was still so hard to see inside the cupboard. He pushed back a bag of flour and a package of pasta. Why was it so hard to find a chalk bin? His hand pushed can after can, package after package, probing the cupboards and scowling. He was beginning to think that the chalk wasn't even there, like his parents might have moved it, when his fingers brushed against something leathery. That wasn't food. What was that? Curiously, his thin digits traced the leather, and the plastic next to it. He also unintentionally found a flashlight near it, how convenient. Scribbling absurdities against the family and giving the basement a, 'make-over,' would have to wait. He wanted to know what this was about.

He fished out the flashlight and mystery objects. He was surprised to discover that the leather and the plastic were actually covers to two separate books. A white, plastic binder with a gold title on the top, and a secretive leather-covered black book with a small scrawl of neat printing on it. Odd. Most of the books were kept on a book-shelving unit in his family study. Normally, Scout would've just ignored them, but right now, he'd do anything to entertain himself. He tucked them under his arm and headed over to the couch. He clicked on the flashlight and decided to start with the binder.

"'_Hawthorne... Photo Album,'" _shakingly repeated Scout to his best abilities. His reading abilities weren't the best in the World, he'd have to grudgingly admit. He flipped to the first page.

A picture of him and his family in front of their current house greeted him. All of them were standing stiff and serious, except for him. He was about a year old, teething on his hand while sitting on the grass with bright, happy eyes. How embarrassing. He flipped through a few more pages. A few pictures of his parents in their childhoods, his Ma while pregnant, Clark's old football team from high school, Vincent's seventh birthday party, Matthew getting second place in the football tournament, Ritchie playing the part of a charming rogue in a play, (Scout had to laugh at this one. His costume was hilarious) Johnny reading a book, all innocent pictures, but something hurt him as he came to realization; There were no pictures of him anywhere in the book besides the first picture. No baby pictures. No childhood pictures. No pictures from his teenage years. Nothing. He flipped through the whole thing, and while the whole family got mentioned he was nowhere to be seen. He let out a scowl and tossed it across the across the room. Bastards. Typical of them. He then looked at the other book, which oddly enough had a French phrase written in cursive.

_"Tou… Touj-j-jours un… Ser…ment… gardien? Jusqu'à… La mort que nous nous sép… séparions...?"_ Scout couldn't understand the printing. He had picked up on a few French words from Spy, but only a few, and that didn't mean he knew how to read it. Not only that, he hadn't heard either of his parents speak a word of French. It didn't make any sense. He flipped the page, and his mind flooded with questions.

There was a picture of a man and a woman. His mother was there, but not with his father, someone else. His mom looked around eighteen with her hair tied back into pigtails and garbed in a silky white and black dress. She looked delighted, and admittingly beautiful, hugging a someone's arm. Someone skinny wearing a fedora that covered his face in a shadow, and a trench coat. It was the same man he had seen when he was five. The friendly stranger who had just wandered into and out of their house from way back then. He had an air of familiarity back then, but now it was like a giant force of gravity smacking into him. He knew this man. He knew him very well. The answer should have so obvious… So why was it just out of his grasp_?_

"Damn," he snarled. When he tried to think too hard, it'd just slip away and leave him with a headache. How obnoxious. With no other option, he turned the page again… To be met with nonsensical French diary entries, written in his Ma's handwriting. There were pictures from places he'd never seen. A ship, some city that sure as hell wasn't Boston… It just didn't click. He closed the book and sighed. Nothing made sense. It didn't add up. Two things he learned, though;

One, he didn't know his Ma as well as he thought he did. Clearly, she knew her French well, and probably used it to confuse Clark or anyone else who ever tried to read about her personal life. Two, whoever that stranger was, his Ma certainly knew him VERY well. He'd have to ask her how she did know at some point, or else the memory of the enigmatic visitor would forever be a mystery. At the same time, though, that meant TALKING to her… He wasn't sure what to say to her. He had just left the bedridden, dying woman while she was giving him a heartfelt plea for forgiveness, and he had answered by saying, 'bullshit,' and slamming the door in her face. He cursed himself, as he had just complicated things. …He HATED complications…

He threw both books away, and leaned back onto the sofa. Well, life just had just got eight times more confusing. His stomach roared at him. It was funny, how he didn't notice the pain in his stomach until now, two days after not eating anything.

"Guess I was distracted," he mused. His stomach let out another shout, "Lat'uh, alright? Stop whining, ya've been trou worse." He folded his arms behind his head, ignoring the pain in his stomach. He tilted his cap, and closed his eyes.

_Creeeeeaaaak._

Scout's eyes popped open and darted right to the door. He scowled, expecting his father.

…Then he realised that the footsteps coming down the basement staircase were far too light. Small feet, garbed in socks. Carrying a light-weight individual. Not only that, there wouldn't an scrumptious, chocolaty sent following him. …Yeah, he could calculate all that in the first two seconds of hearing the sounds of the steps and sniffing the air. He, as mentioned before, had ridiculously good senses. The footsteps slowly walked down the steps and turned on the light-bulb dangling from the ceiling. Scout squinted, adjusting his eyes to the sudden difference in the luminosity. He looked up to see Ally at the bottom of the stairs, carrying a plate of oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies and her toy bunny. She shuffled nervously upon reaching the bottom and trembled upon locking eyes with Scout. Scout raised an eyebrow. Was he really that threatening? She stayed strong, however, and held up the plate for him.

"Y-Ya didn't eat nuthin' yesta'day," she whispered, "An' you've been down here fah a long time… Two hours, I thin-"

"Stop, stop, stop," said Scout, waving his hands dismissively, "Stop talkin' like dat. You ain't my slave, and I ain't gonna smack ya like Pops does if ya screw up, Ok? Talk ta me like ya would ta a normal person."

Ally looked down, embarrassed. She muttered some nonsense, blushing in embarrassment. Without further word, she offered him the tray of cookies. Scout looked to them, then to her. She was still looking down with nervousness, shivering as she held the plate. It was then he remembered how much of douche he had been to her, insulting her behind her back. And here she was, offering him cookies. Why had he been so mean to her anyway? She didn't say mean things to him, on the contrary, she said nothing to him asides from asking him to fix a turtle. A bit of kindness would not be out of left-field, he decided. Besides, he was STARVING.

"I'm guessin' ya ain't too chatty. That's alright," he assured, taking a cookie off the tray throwing it into his mouth, nearly swallowing it whole. Ally plopped down next to him and ate quite a few as well, but not nearly as many as Scout did. The lad was just scarfing them down, savouring the chocolate and the crumbs. The first time he had eaten in two days. THANK THE GREAT LORD AND THE EVEN GREATER TODDLER. After shoving them all down, he let out triumphant belch. Ally giggled a little.

As the tyke giggled away, Scout smiled softly and leaned back into the couch cushions. Maybe Ally wasn't so bad after all.

**A/N: DAAAAAAAAAAAWW! :D Who doesn't love a bit of cuteness every once and a while? Anyways, see you next chapter.**


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